


love like an eternal spring

by happycakeycake



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Concubines, Imperial AU, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sexual Content, fine silk and love and decadence yup, please don't fact check me i'm sorry it's very inaccurate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2018-11-07 19:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11065386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happycakeycake/pseuds/happycakeycake
Summary: "Don't you think it's time the prince becomes a man?"~An imperial au in which crown prince changkyun ends up learning a few things about love.





	1. opportunity knocks at your door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took half a year of planning and now the first chapter is finally done! unfortunately, this is in no way historically accurate and is basically 99% based off of chinese imperial dramas i watched as a kid. sorry please forgive me :')).  
> Also much thanks for user kurookano with helping me plan out (and scream about) this au all the way back in december. 
> 
> Historical disclaimer: concubines were solely lovers and entertainers for the emperor. Being involved with anyone else was basically a crime worthy of death or banishment. Therefore please take the historical setting in this fic w a grain of salt since i took a few liberties with the role of concubines in this au. Hui-bin is used as title for the emperor's queen consort, which i've also taken a few liberties with.

“An early congratulations for Your Highness’s 20th birthday. May you rule as well as your father when the time comes.”

Changkyun barely glances up from his cup as Hui-bin Shin Hoseok, the emperor’s official First Consort and his unofficial tormentor sweeps in, tossing a buttered compliment his way, before settling down at his father’s left arm.

When the prince never acknowledges his happy birthday wish, Hyunwoo sighs, fond exasperation evident in the crinkle of his eyes, and he turns to his left to accept the wish on behalf of his son.

“Thank you for your consideration, Shin Hui-bin. My son,” Changkyun continues to stare resolutely downward, “and I appreciate your thoughtfulness very much.”

“It is of great importance - this year, this age, for him. May my simple wish bring him as much luck as possible.” He toasts silently to that, elegantly folding a sleeve under his cup and tipping it backwards, closing his eyes towards the gilded ceiling in the process. Hyunwoo follows with his own cup of drink, and then reluctantly, Changkyun, with his cup of meager tea.

He’s been promised a night of celebration, complete with rich alcohol and all other forms of (unsavory) decadence, but it is to be no sooner nor no later than the 26th day of the 1st month.

For now, he swirls his cold cup, staring critically at the dark bits of leaf that had somehow escaped his attention. At the others’ quiet prompt, he downs the rest of the drink, internally wincing at the slick bitterness and sets the cup down with a loud clink.

He ignores the blatant glare aimed at his downturned cheek and instead, focuses intently on studying the leftover tea leaves at the bottom of his empty cup. From the small amount of attention he had paid during tea ceremony sessions, the mangled bits of leaf in his cup apparently symbolize -

“When opportunity knocks at your door, you would do best to open it.”

Changkyun jumps, dropping the china with a crash against the platter at the sudden appearance of a familiar, nagging voice right _behind_ his ear. Yoo Kihyun strolls out from around him with a lighthearted air, hiding the smug pull of his lips. He bows deeply to the emperor and dips his head in slighter acknowledgment towards Shin Hui-Bin’s slitted glance.

Kihyun seats himself opposite to the consort, completing the triumvirate at the emperor’s right side. He is, after all, the royal advisor, the crown head’s right-hand man, and - Changkyun grimaces at the thought - the one who has the official say on all of the prince’s studies.

His tutor now picks up his own cup of tea, gracefully swallowing the entire thing down despite it having long gone cold, before turning on Changkyun with a critical eye. He sets the china down with a fine clink and lets out an ever-familiar sigh. “It seems you haven’t been keeping up with your lessons, Your Highness.”

The prince leans sloppily against his palm, gaze stuck to the leftover puddle in his cup as he mutters, “I wasn’t aware reading tea leaves was something I needed to know in order to run a country.” He raises a slim brow at his mentor, challenge apparent in the tense silence.

Kihyun should be used to it at this point, but a spike of annoyance still shoots through his veins. He keeps his face frozen in a painted smile, exhaling through his nose even as Changkyun looks on with smug hawk eyes, watching for the moment the older man cracks. It’s one of the few things that actively brings him pure joy anymore - after almost 20 years of a cushy and spoiled existence in the world, nothing quite compares with his mentor’s scrunched, fuming, hamster face.

However, his enjoyment is cut short when Shin Hui-bin’s sickenly demure voice makes its way out from behind a raised sleeve. “He’s a little wolf pup, isn’t he?” The royal consort turns to lean against the emperor, whispering, “He must get it from his mother I suppose.”

It’s obviously meant to be heard, especially by the prince himself, and Changkyun immediately bristles, jolting up from his slumped position to glare at his father’s consort. Unfortunately, Hyunwoo only grins aloofly, letting the coyly smiling man ( _snake_! Changkyun’s mind hisses) burrow against his side.

“It’s true - as brilliant, fiery, and spontaneous as a firecracker. She lit up my life,” Hoseok sniffs minutely at that, disdain disappearing from his face as quickly as it came, “and she left me with a son,” Hyunwoo turns towards the boy, eyes gentle with pride, and Changkyun can feel his insides turn uncomfortably, “who is just as bright.” He laughs heartily, unaware of Kihyun’s nervously shifting gaze, Hoseok’s darkening expression, and Changkyun’s guilty own.

“Not to mention stubborn, of course,” he finishes, turning and meeting the consort’s quickly plastered smile with a genuine one, absentmindedly brushing his fingers across the delicate skin at the other’s nape. Hoseok’s lips grow a little sharper, a little more cunning as he purrs against the emperor’s touch. “I’m glad you agree, Your Majesty.”

Changkyun feigns gagging beneath the table, suppressing a giggle when even Kihyun shakes his head minutely in disapproval at the scene in front of them. Of course, he has more reason than Changkyun to be disgusted - the emperor was quite the catch after his wife’s death; if only he’d taken advantage of the situation before a certain someone had stepped up in a flash of hooded gazes and pretty robes and lured away what meager chance he had.

Now, it’s too late: Changkyun’s stuck with a pseudo-stepmother that’s definitely out for his blood, if not to at least make his life a living hell.

Speaking of being out for blood, Hoseok (finally) removes himself from the emperor’s side, and turns his attention towards Changkyun. There’s never anything pure about the First Consort’s intentions, but today, there’s something especially malicious under those finely painted lids of his.

“Well, don’t you think it’s time for our _stubborn_ prince,” his pretty lips quirk so cruelly Changkyun wishes punching your father’s consort wasn’t something generally regarded as illegal, “to grow up?” Hoseok’s words are met with silence, rife with simmering anger and confusion, but he sits unfazed as lets everyone mull over his question.

“What I mean is,” he continues coyly when no one deems him with a reply, “don’t you think it’s time the prince becomes a man?”

This time, Kihyun immediately speaks up. “How so?” he asks, less concerned about Changkyun’s actual fate than rising to the consort’s unspoken challenge. “He’s already receiving tutoring in all of the necessary courses, and by one of the most qualified mentors in the nation if I do say so myself-” Changkyun rolls his eyes, “-and so I do not see any further implementations that need to be taken in order to prepare him for the crown and become a man, as you would say.” He huffs a small breath at the end of his little speech, satisfied at his rebuke.

Shin Hui-bin sits through the barrage and emerges completely unruffled, not one muscle on his perfect face out of place. He smiles now, cheeks bunching up like the curve of ripe peaches, and it would’ve be quite the sight if it wasn’t for the fact that the words coming out of that pretty face will most likely sentence Changkyun to some irreversible, horrid fate.

“I thought, as some worldly tutor, you would have at least a semblance of an idea of what I’m talking about. But,” he cocks his head, eyes slitted like a cat’s, “I guess you must be lacking in experience as well.”

Kihyun’s brows furrow at the insult, but Hoseok ignores him and instead turns his focus towards Changkyun. “This kind of education cannot be taught in dusty studies with ancient books and maps,” he pauses, sweeping his gaze lazily around the room. “But only with heat and human touch.” he finishes smoothly, delivering the last part as he pointedly makes eye contact with the rapidly blinking prince.

 _Oh._ A circuit of realization zips through everyone’s minds, save for the one who had proposed the idea. It’s so apparent now, and Changkyun immediately feels blood flush to his cheeks as the implications behind Hoseok’s words are unveiled. He’s turning twenty, an appropriate age to become familiar with the world of intimacy - crudely speaking, sex. 

It never seemed real: the hushed expectations, the whispers of palace ladies, the glances from ethereal men and women clad in the sheerest silks with the coldest stares. It was a reality so far away it had seemed perfectly unattainable; something he had happily pushed away under the solidity of parchment and ink. He’s never looked forward to this aspect of royal life, and trapped under the First Consort’s stare, he dreads it now with every bone in his body.

“Is that _truly_ necessary?” Kihyun questions, breaking Changkyun out of his panicked reverie. For once, he’s thankful for his mentor’s inherently bothersome nature.

Hoseok has one hand around his cup, pale fingers tapping rhythmically at the china, but otherwise he shows no other signs of irritation. “It is inevitable that one day our great emperor will be gone.” His glance shifts towards Hyunwoo’s, their eyes meeting briefly before he turns back to Kihyun. “And when that day comes, the prince will have to marry.”

“On that wedding night, there are certain things expected of him.” Changkyun shivers, unable to tear his eyes away from the way Hoseok’s pink lips tug and pull. It’s uncanny, as if he was a doll with strings. 

“What will the kingdom do when no heir is produced?” His grin grows, and Changkyun feels sick. He’s being laughed at. How is it that no one else can see the cold mirth glinting in those flat eyes? “And all because of a lack of education? What kind of precedent does that set for future generations?”

“None.” The echo of silence is deafening. “Because the royal line will be dead.”

It’s true. Everything he’s said is true, no matter the intentions behind the words. Even Kihyun can’t argue, his mouth closing sullenly in silent recognition of Hoseok’s victory. Changkyun wants to scream at his tutor, to ask him why out of every stubborn argument he’s ever had, this is the one he finally chooses to back down from? He’s pleading, desperate, for anyone or anything to get him out of here, for the earth to swallow him up before Shin Hui-bin’s words hang him up by a metaphorical noose.

Kihyun sees the look on the prince’s face, and he can only look away, regret flickering as fast as the quiver of butterfly wings. Changkyun wants to cry. There goes his last hope, blinking away in the flash of an eye.

“And so I propose, Your Majesty,” he inclines his head towards Hyunwoo, silently asking permission. The emperor nods, eyes dark and unreadable. Hoseok continues, satisfaction coiling in the high arch of his back as sly words take form on the tip of his tongue. “As the head consort, I am in charge of an innumerable amount of men and women, all highly trained in both the affairs of the body and the mind - all royal concubines willing and ready to service our dear prince.” 

Hyunwoo’s brow is furrowed, head tilted as he considers the proposal. Hoseok’s voice only continues weaving its way around the room, plying the emperor to his will with as little effort as it takes to smooth a hand over non-existent wrinkles on a spread of silk. “It will be easy,” he waves noncommittally. “We’ll set up a simple evening gathering, oh say, a few days from now. Then, our princeling can sit back and relax as my finest dolls greet him, offer him a bit of tea, and perhaps…” he grins at Changkyun, teeth glinting hard and white under deceptively soft lips, “even put on a little display.”

The words barely register in Changkyun’s brain, muffled as if he were underwater. All he can feel is an empty hole inside his stomach, sucking away at skin and bone until all that’s left is a sense of pure exhaustion and defeat. His fate’s been sealed. He can’t avoid it now, no matter how much he protests. 

Not with the way his father’s mouth is moving, forming sounds and syllables that have Hoseok nodding eagerly along, delight spreading through him like a roaring wave. It’s instantaneous and deadly, his pink smile and white teeth slamming down on Changkyun’s fate, squishing it like a measly ant underfoot.

“So it’s decided then.” Shin Hui-bin declares cheerily towards the prince’s dazed stare. “Won’t it be exciting?”

 _No,_ Changkyun thinks. No, it won’t be at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title inspired by late night jams to vixx's shangri-la. thank you for reading and please tell me what you think! any and all comments are extremely welcome!
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr: [*](https://happycakestories.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	2. fortune is fickle and favors youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crown prince reluctantly encounters thirty or so new guests - however not all of them are completely unwelcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this chapter took a while. also i tried to actually do research this time so here are some words you probably need to know:  
> godarisokgot - underwear, sokjeogori - undershirt/underjacket, sokbaji - under trousers, hanbok - traditional korean clothing, chigwan - cover for a man's topknot, manggeon - headband, sangtu - topknot hairstyle for men, gwanja - buttons on the manggeon, dopo - overcoat, gat - hat, taesahye - expensive low cut shoes, jeogori - upper garment like a top, chima - skirt, guzheng - chinese plucked string instrument, gayageum - korean equivalent of the guzheng

In the next few days, the palace fills with bustling activity, and Changkyun passes each day with an increasingly heavy heart. The sight of servants filing by with their arms piled high with glittering decorations has become too commonplace for him to even be surprised by it anymore. Even worse, their load seems to increase exponentially every time he walks by, Changkyun notes numbly as a servant girl scurries by with a gilded platter twice the size of her head.

It’s even worse outside the palace. Every time he had pulled aside the veil of his carriage window, he was met with the sight of an uncountable number of heads bowed towards him in reverence. Even worse, he had been chased by bordering-on-hysterical screams, wishing him happy birthday throughout his entire ride of the city. Changkyun has avoided setting foot outside of the palace gates since then.

“So I take it you’re not up for giving me a tour of the capital then?” Hyungwon asks, interrupting the prince’s train of thought as he joins him near the painted balustrade.

Changkyun grunts noncommittally, eyes still locked on a preening duck. “I trust you’re smart enough to take a tour it yourself. Besides, I’d only make the women angry by blocking out your pretty face.”

His third cousin sighs, leaning exasperatedly against his palm. “Well, it’s nice to know you haven’t changed at all from your old teenage self.”

“Who says I still don’t qualify as a teenager, huh?” Changkyun replies without a beat, chucking a piece of bread at the duck. He swears it’s the same one he sees every time he comes to this particular spot, and now it looks at him expectantly with black, beady eyes.   

Hyungwon reaches a hand out, and Changkyun passes him a chunk of bread without question. The older boy proceeds to join him in his afternoon duck feeding session, tearing apart his own piece of bread into uneven lumps and hurling them over the railing. They continue in silence until all that’s left on their palms are minuscule crumbs that stick stubbornly despite the chilly winter wind.

They’ve attracted quite a crowd as all kinds of birds are flocking to the pile of bread droppings to fight for their own share. Still, Changkyun observes with an odd note of pride, _his_ duck is the winner as it waddles its oversized body through the crowd on stick thin ankles, chasing off intruders with grating honks. Hyungwon snickers when it starts flapping its wings in hopes of chasing off a particularly stubborn sparrow, who is currently pecking up all the biggest chunks without any apparent shame.

The other bird barely looks up from its free meal and only hops away when it notices larger bread pieces at the edge of the pile. Changkyun’s duck seems to give up, folding its wings back against its fat body and waddling away to resume its own meal.

And like that, his temporary source of entertainment has come to an end, and he’s stuck with the same dilemma he’s been faced with all day: finding something to occupy himself with so he won’t have to agonize over birthday celebrations.

Of which includes the “tea ceremony.” He shudders visibly at the thought of it, contorting his face into a grimace.

Hyungwon glances over lazily, taking in his cousin’s sour expression and chances a guess. “Birthday preparations coming along well?”

“Too well,” Changkyun mutters, still avoiding any form of eye contact.

“Can’t be too bad, at least not for, oh you know, the first prince of Korea.” Hyungwon shoots back, completely deadpan.

Changkyun huffs, dropping his head to rest against the cold wood before finally locking eyes with his cousin. “Did you come all this way just to insult me or do you actually have a legitimate reason for being here?”

“What, can’t I visit my _favorite_ cousin on his 20th birthday just to wish him well?” He grins cheekily, full lips pressed into a devious smile. Changkyun only raises an eyebrow in silent disbelief as he waits for Hyungwon to reveal his true intentions.

The older boy rolls his eyes in disdain, standing up straight to cross his arms defensively across his chest. “Fine, so Father may have forced me to come study in the capital for an extended period as I am, apparently, ‘wasting away my youth,’ but the point is that I am visiting you, dear cousin, of my own free will.”

“Wow, I don’t know what to say, I’m _so_ honored you’ve decided to voluntarily grace me with your presence, Lord Chae.” Changkyun replies flatly, voice practically dripping with sarcasm.

Hyungwon scowls, leaning back against a pillar. “I remember why I liked you so much now. When that tone wasn’t directed at me, at least.”

Changkyun can’t help the smirk that overtakes his face as he remembers the trouble he had gotten into a few years back with Hyungwon as his willing accomplice no less. His cousin mirrors the same expression as they both reminisce about having to kneel for hours on end as punishment for scribbling all over historical manuscripts in crude handwriting. Even know, Kihyun still glares at Hyungwon with suspicion every time he visits.

“Good times right?” The young lord prompts, and Changkyun nods agreeably. “So,” Hyungwon smiles, pausing dramatically, “shall we get into some trouble again?”

“Unfortunately, not this time,” the prince sighs gloomily. “I’m not even allowed within the main court right now.” He slouches against the balustrade, hooking his chin over his arms as he frowns at the now-empty duck pond.

“What?” Hyungwon immediately questions, handsome face twisting into a frown. “Why?” he pushes again, impatient when Changkyun doesn’t immediately grace him with a reply.

The prince continues to glare moodily into the distant horizon, dread increasing incrementally with each passing second. Hyungwon is truly one of the few people who has stuck with him throughout his entire life, all the way from when he was a snot-nosed brat up to now. He admits he’s still a bit spoiled, maybe even more so, but for all the fake fronts he puts up he’ll never forget the depressive rainy days where his cousin kept him company for hours on end, even as neither of them uttered a single word.

Which is why he’d rather keep the two topics of adulthood and Hyungwon separate as long as possible, if not potentially forever.

“Hey,” the older boy prompts, nudging Changkyun’s elbow with his own, “just tell me already. You can trust your hyung with your _deepest_ secrets.” He waggles his eyebrows animatedly, emulating the exaggerated faces in ink paintings.

“Not when you look at me like that,” the young prince retorts, scrunching up his own face in disgust.

“You’re lucky I’m used to your level of disrespect at this point or else you wouldn’t have anyone willing to be your verbal punching bag.” Hyungwon scowls, looking as grumpy as he usually does during early morning tutoring sessions. It’s not intimidating at all, and Changkyun internally stifles a laugh at how little his cousin has changed.

“How about this?” Hyungwon prompts, adopting a look the young prince knows all too well. Mouth flat and chin tilted, he fits the perfect image of a cold beauty. Changkyun immediately puts up his guard; the only thing that results from this face is devious scheming, and he would rather wear that expression than be on the receiving end of it.

“When I traveled to the capital, I didn’t bring much. But, one of the few things I did bring was a _guzheng._ ” Changkyun’s mouth drops open in automatic shock, and Hyungwon already knows he’s won. He continues casually, turning to look off at some random point in the distance. “Sixteen count strings, handbound with the finest silk, and acquired from a trusted personal dealer too. I’d say…” he turns to see Changkyun looking at him with unblinking intensity, and he has to muffle a chuckle, “it’s of pretty decent quality, if not the highest in its field.”

“My birthday is in three days hyung, please give it to me.” the prince states flatly without any hesitation. Still, he’s clenching the sleeve of his robe inside his fist so hard he’ll definitely be scolded later for creasing his clothes. However, the thought of being able to acquire a new instrument overrides it all, and he can already feel the desperate beat of his heart jumping into his throat as he yearns for the stringed contraption. There’s something about the Chinese _guzheng_ that just doesn’t compare to the _gayageum_. The court performances use that instrument so often he’s already familiar with every possible nuance of the songs performed with it. To state the truth, he’s grown bored of having to use it in his own compositions as well.

But a new instrument, an unfamiliar one from a foreign country - it could keep him occupied for months on end. He could stave off the monotony of everyday life for just a bit longer, keep himself happy for a little bit more.

“Sure.” Hyungwon tosses back, face blank. “On one condition though. Tell me what you’re dreading so much about your birthday celebrations.”

Changkyun knew it, and yet he still feels his heart skip a beat at his cousin’s request. He _really_ doesn’t want to bring up the topic of concubines and adult ceremonies, but _that instrument_. That instrument is temptation incarnate. He really _really_ wants it - no he _needs_ it if he wants to continue his miserable existence in this world. The prince takes a deep breath, swallowing his pride with an audible gulp before looking Hyungwon dead in the eye. “Fine, you win,” he grits out, “but I think you should know if you’re mentally scarred after this it’s completely your own fault.”

“Fair enough,” Hyungwon concedes, but there’s already a satisfied grin spreading across his face from his hard-won victory.

“They’re planning a ‘tea ceremony’ for tomorrow,” Changkyun spits out, “but it’s more of an excuse to show how perfectly inadequate I am in front of two-faced concubines.”

“What?” Hyungwon’s confused again, the details too loose to be connected into a comprehensive thought.

“Hoseok.” The prince utters one word, short and succinct, and Hyungwon’s eyes immediately widen in understanding.

It’s no secret, the hostility between the crown prince and his father’s First Consort. Really, Hyungwon thinks, rolling the name over in his mind, that should’ve been his first guess. “Shin Hui-bin,” he whispers, nodding minutely to himself. Changkyun snorts out loud at the almost reverent way his cousin utters the name, and he flicks his hand briskly to clear the air of it.

“Don’t worry hyung,” he faux whispers. “Saying his name won’t automatically summon him to where you are. You’d probably have to sacrifice me first.”

“You…” Hyungwon runs a hand through his hair, chuckling incredulously, “of course you don’t have any respect for your elders at all.” He’s highly amused though, eyes pressed into a fine line as his lips spread to show off gleaming teeth.

“Nope,” Changkyun replies, popping the word. “So, are you forever scarred now?”

“I admit the idea of you engaging in physical relations is completely distasteful, but fortunately my peaceful state of mind is still intact.” Hyungwon leans back against a pillar, closing his eyes and feigning a meditating state. “However, the question is,” his brown eyes snap open and zero in on the younger boy like a hawk chasing after prey, “what are you going to do?”

“Apparently they’re rehearsing in the main court right now,” Changkyun says gesturing towards the general direction of the palace. “For what though, I’m not quite too sure.” He collapses backwards onto the balustrade, dangling his head over the edge. “All I know is that I’m supposed to go tomorrow and find someone I’m willing to fuck after I drink myself into a stupor on the night of my birthday so I can, according to Hoseok, ‘become a man’.”  

Hyungwon winces at the prince’s blunt words, but they both know what Changkyun said is completely true. It’s an unfortunate tradition for the royal family, and as unwilling as he is, there’s no way the crown prince will be able to avoid this rite of passage. After all, even as the emperor’s distant nephew, Hyungwon went through the same treatment at that age.

He didn’t mind it much - a quick night of pleasure, all over in the blink of an eye. The truth is, it had been so forgettable he can barely recall any details of that night, including who he had actually slept with. He knows his cousin though; for all of his feigned indifference he’s just a boy who’s only true attachment to the world has been poems and music. Hyungwon knows Changkyun acts out so often because it’s the only way he can handle the heavy expectations pushed onto him at such a young age.  

He observes the skinny line of the prince’s neck, noting the slow rise and fall of his chest. There’s nothing pity will do for his cousin; all he can really offer is his own company.

He grabs Changkyun by the wrist, pulling gently until the boy reluctantly flops back over the balustrade. He glowers up at the young lord through tangled bangs, trying to look as displeased as possible. However, Hyungwon only sees a grumpy little puppy, so he ruffles the other’s bangs without any fear. The prince keeps his head bowed, allowing the rough hand to run through his hair for a few moments more before knocking it away and stepping away from the railing.

Hyungwon follows him, catching up to the other’s rapid pace with a few long-legged strides. “Are we allowed to head back at this point?” he asks, slinging an arm around the shorter boy’s shoulder, leaning comfortably against his side.

Changkyun rolls his shoulder in protest, but his cousin’s floppy limbs cling to him like a heavy winter coat. He eventually gives up and grunts out an answer instead. “Even if we aren’t, we can just crash the ‘rehearsal’ and hopefully delay it for a few more days.”

“Oh?” Hyungwon squeezes Changkyun’s shoulder affectionately, messing up the prince’s robes even more under his rough treatment. “It’ll just be like old times then.”

“Yeah,” the boy smiles, dropping his gaze to his feet. “Good times.”

Hyungwon ruffles Changkyun’s hair once more as they amble back to the main court, and this time, the prince leans just slightly into his touch.

 

\---------

 

In Changkyun’s opinion, if the sky is still hazy and gray there should be no reason for him to be awake and fully dressed, and in full formal attire no less.

The head servant boy has to practically drag him out of bed this morning, pulling and tugging at the blanket that Changkyun clings to like a lifeline in a sea of boiling metal. He finally succeeds with a particularly harsh yank that dislocates the prince’s claw-like grip from the fine cotton spread. The head servant grunts, tossing it to the side as he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows in preparation. He may be just as skinny and lanky as the dozing prince, but he’s got years of experience under his skin and that speaks for something at least. Especially for waking up spoiled teenagers who will inevitably have the entire fate of the country placed in their palms.

“I’m not in the mood for this today, Yoongi.” Changkyun groans out, muffling his words into the pillow. It’s soft enough he could easily ignore the absence of his blankets and go right back to sleep if he wanted to. He was having such a nice dream too; something involving a beautiful garden devoid of any other people besides him and his newly obtained _guzheng._ He swears he can still feel the solid twang of the strings against his fingers if he concentrates hard enough.

“Neither am I.” The head servant states flatly, slim eyes narrowing at Changkyun’s prone figure. “Get up now,” he demands, slapping none too gently at an exposed ankle.

The boy only curls up into a tight ball, digging his face even deeper into the pillow, resolute in his decision to completely ignore Yoongi until he’s been left alone to return peacefully to the land of dreams.

It doesn’t work at all. A rough grip latches onto his arm and pulls so hard Changkyun thinks his shoulder must have been dislocated from the force. He slumps forward, bobbing his chin against his chest even as Yoongi’s hold keeps him upright. Suddenly, he’s rudely pulled out of his dazed reverie when a sharp thump is delivered to his back, knocking him awake as he chokes on his own spit.

Yoongi allows himself to smile minutely when the prince finally looks up at him, fully awake albeit a little moody. “Good morning, Your Highness. Are you ready for your bath now?”

Changkyun grimaces, wrinkling his nose at the idea of sitting in a pool of his own filth this early in the morning. “Do I get to wash myself this morning or does Hoseok think I’m incapable of that too?”

“Shin Hui-bin has asked me to ensure that you are properly cleaned and dressed, so I’ve taken the liberty of bringing along a few servant girls to help with that task.” At Changkyun’s blanched expression, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, they won’t scrub where they’re not supposed to. I trust that you can take care of that by yourself.” The boy blushes, color spreading in uneven blotches across his cheeks.

“Is the water at least warm?” Changkyun sighs, admitting defeat in his embarrassment.

“Why don’t you get in the tub and find out, Your Highness?” Yoongi states calmly, already turning away to gather up the rumpled bedding. As he bends down, he hears an audible sigh and the distinct sound of bare feet padding across the stone floor.

When the footsteps eventually fade, he allows himself to exhale deeply. Finally, his hardest task of the day is done. Yoongi stands up straight, blanket haphazardly piled his arms, and groans internally, dropping his head to rest against the soft cotton. He lets out a long-suffering sigh at the sight of the prince’s bed and resolves to send word for a replacement tomorrow.

 

\---------

 

The aforementioned servant girls are on him the moment he steps into the wooden tub, scrubbing him down from head to toe (excluding _certain_ regions) with harsh hands and rough washcloths. The water is not only warm, it’s practically scalding, and Changkyun winces in pain when one of the girls drops his cleaned arm back underwater. He hisses when the hot bathwater encapsulates his limb, burning a trail of liquid fire as it spreads across raw skin.

The same treatment is unfortunately dealt out to the rest of the prince’s body, especially his poor scalp. When the servant girls finally finish digging their sharp nails into his head, a bucket of boiling water is unceremoniously dumped over him to wash out the strange concoction of cleaning oils that have been mixed into his hair. Afterwards, they step back, apparently satisfied with their work, and bow together at the waist before walking around the folded screen and leaving Changkyun to simmer in his newly cleaned state.

When he finally manages to pull himself out of the tub to begin drying off his sensitive skin, a new set of girls sweep in from behind the screen, arms laden with folded sets of silken robes. Changkyun rushes to cover himself, pulling on and tying his _godarisokgot_ with impressive speeds even as the servants avert their eyes for the sake of his modesty. He finally finishes pulling on his _sokjeogori_ and _sokbaji_ with the same urgency, coughing lightly to alert the girls of his now clothed state.

They dress him now with same unflinching professionalism the servants from before had -  hands draping, tying, and pulling on layer after intricate layer of clothing until he’s covered in a fully assembled _hanbok_. The finishing touches come as his hair is pulled into a _sangtu_ , then covered with a _chigwan_ , and finally a _manggeon_ is fastened around his head with a pair of _gwanja._ Changkyun sits docilely throughout the entire process as he would have no idea otherwise about how to dress himself presentably with these complicated pieces. When the girls finish, they bow lowly and file away in the same quiet manner as the previous servants, leaving him with only his headpiece, coat, and shoes to put on.

By the time the prince pulls on his _dopo_ and _gat,_ he considers himself completely overdressed, even for a cold winter’s day like this. The action of toeing on his _taesahye_ is so overwhelmingly stifling he swears he’s not going to be able to walk around comfortably in an outfit like this. Still, Changkyun forces himself to his feet and waddles his way out from behind the folded screen towards the door.

Guards await the prince silently as he steps through the entrance and down the stairs. They bow deeply before taking their positions at his back when he begins his walk to the main palace. Changkyun knows the path well, but never before did it ever seem this foreboding. It’s early enough that there is no familiar birdsong to reassure him; only the loud echo of his shoes against the ground to keep him company on this unwilling journey.

Finally, he reaches his destination, taking a deep breath as guards push open the wide-set, gilded doors to the main court room. As expected, there’s Hoseok waiting expectantly by the throne, kneeled elegantly next to a delicate tea table. There’s a loud rustle from the far right side of the expansive room, and Changkyun turns sharply to see a folded screen, not unlike the one in his own quarters but definitely on a much larger scale as it has been erected to cover almost the entire wall. From Hoseok’s keen glare towards the sound, he has no trouble guessing what is hidden behind the paper screen. However, the knowledge of it offers him no peace of mind, only serving to heighten his anxiety tri-fold.

“Well, our crown prince has finally arrived!” Hoseok declares, letting his voice carry through the entire courtroom. A collective shift seems to emanate from behind the screen, most likely the concubines preparing themselves for display. The First Consort smiles furtively, motioning with an quick flick of a sleeve for Changkyun to take his place behind the the tea table.

The prince begrudgingly obeys, sliding down next to Hoseok in a cross-legged sit, resting his hands nervously in his lap. The older man snaps open a finely painted fan, holding it up to cover half of his face until only sharp eyes peek over a zig-zagged edge. They shift to take in Changkyun’s well-dressed figure, and he nods minutely in approval. “Yoongi has done well this morning,” he hums out, dark eyes crinkling in amusement.

Changkyun scoffs, “I’ve barely gotten enough sleep, what with the upcoming celebrations, but being awoken so early today has most definitely not been helpful towards my general physical appearance.”

“No,” Hoseok says calmly, “but my boys and girls have worked hard to present themselves to you today.” He glances sharply at the prince’s figure again before looking directly into his eyes. “So, I would at least expect a degree of the same professionalism in return. They may be here exclusively for you, but that does not mean they don’t deserve an ounce of your respect.”  

Changkyun looks to the side, properly chastised, and mutters, “I didn’t mean any of that - just that I was woken up way too early to truly look presentable.” Hoseok’s painted eyes narrow, but he decidedly drops the topic for more pressing matters.

“Well, I suppose that’s not up to us to decide, is it?” He drops his fan, revealing full lips curved into a grin. He snaps the fan shut with a practiced twist of his wrist and points it toward the folded screen, signaling for the guards to pull it back and reveal the hidden guests. “Shall we have my dolls tell us what they think of your appearance today?” he croons, anticipation glimmering in dark eyes.

The prince can only nod numbly as the paper screen pulls back to reveal the first hint of a long green sleeve. As it continues to fold up, the sleeve becomes an arm, the arm connects to a chest, and the chest becomes a girl. A very pretty, pale-cheeked, red-lipped girl. Her hair is masterfully coiled at the base of her neck in a thick braid, held up with a shimmering pin. She immediately smiles at him, all kinds of unspoken secrets hidden behind her smooth lips, unconsciously beckoning him to ask as if he was a moth drawn to a flame. He forces himself to look away, shifting to focus onto the next colorful _hanbok._ However, his dazed state of mind only worsens as the screen continues to fold, revealing faces just as equally (if not) more beautiful than the last. They all captivate him in the same way - dark eyes reeling with the most addictive lure, each one seeming to hold some unspoken message meant only for him.

Changkyun’s stomach twists when he realizes there is apparently an entire second line of concubines hidden behind what he had assumed was the only row. He can’t see any of them clearly enough, but just the existence of even more of these captivating creatures than he had previously been aware of already sets his heart into a frenzy.

There’s no way Changkyun will make it through this day alive.

As the guards nearly finish their task, he turns towards Hoseok, dropping his voice into a hushed whisper. “Did you decide to bring the entirety of your entourage or something?” He keeps one eye on the right wall, irrationally afraid that talking any louder will somehow disturb the placid calm of the kneeling concubines.

Hoseok only laughs, genuinely amused at the boy’s reverent tone. “What you see, Your Highness,” he gestures with an open palm, “is only a small fraction of the entire house. The thirty or so that are here today are those that we objectively consider the ‘best in the business’.” His eyes flicker down the line appraisingly before shifting back towards Changkyun. “Of course, you have the right to pick whomever you please, whether they are present here today or not. This,” he tilts his head lightly, “is just my way of helping you narrow down your choice to thirty something out of what must be hundreds.”

 _Hundreds._ The number sticks into the crown prince’s head like a sharp thorn, disbelief blooming from the site of injury until he can’t register any logical thought but pure shock. “You can’t be serious?” he squeaks out breathlessly.

Hoseok’s eyes quickly narrow. “Would I be joking about something like this? Why would this take so long to set up otherwise? Our guests today are the finest out an already particularly selected group; do not underestimate the effort it took to prepare all of them for this meeting.”

“All just for you, little prince.” he murmurs, pinning Changkyun to the spot with a heavy stare.

Between Hoseok’s soul-sucking eyes and the concubines’ alluring call, the prince has no idea where he should direct his gaze to. In the end, he decides on his lap: a safe, if not slightly overdressed choice. “I got it. Thanks.” he mutters lowly.

A sharp sigh comes from his left, and it seems for once he’s finally broken Shin Hui-bin’s calm facade. The older man repeatedly runs the edge of his fingernail across the top of the fan, producing a barely audible shuttering sound. His porcelain face is twisted into a frown, lips pressed together tightly as he stares blankly at a vague point on the floor. “Adamant,” he says quietly to no one in particular.

Changkyun glances over with wide eyes, too stunned by Hoseok’s sudden mood shift to ask who he was talking too. The consort taps the closed fan against his mouth, shifting to look at the prince with deep consideration. “You...you're very much like your father, you know?” He smiles lightly, creased eyes holding something akin to fondness. Changkyun doesn’t quite know what to say, what with the uncharacteristically gentle way Hoseok is looking at him, so he hums neutrally and looks back down towards his lap.

For all of the First Consort’s cold glares and painted smiles, they’ve never made him as uncomfortable as he is now, under what seems to be genuine warmth in the other’s eyes. It’s as if he was faced with another person entirely.

The silence washes them over in a quick wave, and in that second, Hoseok’s eyes become dark and unreadable again. By this point, the guards have finished folding up the paper screen and stand aside, fully revealing the line of concubines, poised and waiting for the “ceremony” to begin. Hoseok decides he’s delayed this long enough with unnecessary sentimentality, so he nods slightly at the group, thanking them silently for their patience.

“Fortune is fickle, but she does tend to favor youth,” he utters quietly, prompting Changkyun to attention. “So, Your Highness,” he smiles tightly, doll mask back in place, “I hope you make use of yours soon enough.”

He holds his fan loosely, letting it dangle in his grasp as he points it toward the first girl. She lowers her glance demurely and rises gracefully to her feet, no hint of soreness at all from kneeling for so long.

The First Consort turns to the crown prince, watching the boy freeze tensely in anxious anticipation. He grins broadly. This will be quite the day.

“Shall we begin?”

 

\---------

 

Changkyun gulps loudly as the first concubine approaches him, the same secretive smile from before on her face. She holds herself confidently, shoulders back, neck straight as she walks towards him with a distinct sway in her hips. Even from this distance, Changkyun can tell how tall she must be - potentially the same height, or perhaps even taller than him. The closer she gets, the more he wonders, truly, where does Hoseok find people like this?

She smiles widely at him, the curve of her lips perfectly symmetrical, and he decides it must be some mysterious feat of nature. How could the crown find someone this perfect, much less hundreds of people with more or less of the same kind of looks out of an entire country of millions? It’s practically impossible.

She kneels before Hoseok first, her hair pin catching the light as she bows her head lowly in acknowledgment. He holds out his arm, presenting her with his bare hand, and she presses her lips softly to his skin without any hesitation. He nods, slipping his hand out of her gentle grasp, and she sits back up, placing her palms on her knees as she holds herself ramrod straight.

“Crown prince,” Hoseok angles himself towards Changkyun, and the girl follows, looking him dead in the eye. “This is Kim Seolhyun, one of the prettiest girls in our house.” She covers a giggle with her sleeve, but there’s no shyness or embarrassment in her expression. Instead, she continues to stare him down, unflinching as she revels in the compliment. There’s no doubt about it, Changkyun thinks as shivers run down his back; he couldn’t even lay a finger on her without being ripped to shreds first.

Still, he pushes aside his unsettling feelings and greets her politely, inclining his head slightly in her direction. Seolhyun returns it, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear and showing off the long line of her neck. Changkyun can’t tear his eyes away for a good moment or two.

She shuffles over to kneel in front of his tea table, seamlessly pulling out a small cup from her wide sleeves. “May I pour Your Highness some tea?” she asks, already setting it onto the table. Changkyun can only nod numbly, letting her take control of the situation.

Seolhyun begins the process by shaking back her sleeves, revealing smooth wrists and pale arms without creasing her clothing. She maneuvers the teapot with ease, one hand holding onto the lid and the other looping steadily around the handle. Her fingers are curved delicately around the china, gripping with just enough force to complete the task while making it seem perfectly effortless at the same time. When she starts to pour, the flow is rhythmic and steady, filling the cup to its brim without spilling a single drop.

Seolhyun offers the cup proudly, one hand poised at the base and the other wrapped around the side. The prince tries to take it as quickly as possible, but his hands still end up brushing against hers and he almost drops it out of pure nerves. Fortunately, she steadies his grip, pushing her palm up under his tense wrists to help him regain his grip. Once Changkyun has it firmly in hand, he immediately drains it in one quick gulp, not even slowing down when the boiling liquid sears through his throat.

He sets the cup down in front of her, quietly whispering a “thank you.” Seolhyun smiles brightly as she rolls her sleeves back down, once again shielding her fine skin behind green ramie. “It was _my_ pleasure meeting you today, Your Highness,” she lilts out from underneath long black lashes, gaze hooded and dark.

Seolhyun gracefully sweeps the empty teacup into her sleeve, and with one last bow, she rises to her feet and saunters back to her spot with the same enticing sway in her hips. Changkyun releases a large breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, slumping slightly as he feels every ounce of energy temporarily drain from his body. When he finally forces himself to sit up, Hoseok is looking back with a knowing smile.

“She’s rather intense, isn’t she?” Changkyun can only nod slowly in agreement. Even trying to move his head is too exhausting a task right now.

“Well, are you ready for the next one?” Hoseok asks, fan in hand.

Changkyun groans miserably. “Are they all like this?”

Hoseok has already called for the next concubine, and he snaps open the fan, using it to stir a light breeze across his face. He hums secretively. “You’ll have to see, little prince.”

Changkyun’s throat pulses with the phantom pain of the scalding tea, and his head spins at the thought of having to do this thirty (if not potentially many more) times over and over again.

He clears his throat and greets the next concubine with a grimace on his face.

 

\---------

 

Hoseok wasn’t joking, Changkyun thinks, massaging gently at his throat. He has no idea how much time has passed at this point, nor how many cups of tea he must have drunken. With each little meeting, his energy drains a bit more, until the only thing he can truly feel is the bitter taste of tea coating his mouth.

Truthfully, each of the concubines following Seolhyun are just as stunning as the last. They’re all dressed in their brightest finest _hanboks_ , hair beautifully arranged with numerous pins and jewels, and their faces are painted to the utmost degree of perfection without a line out of place. Each of them have their own distinctive looks - wide faces, thin lips, long noses, or big eyes - that uniquely set them apart from the others. Some of them even show off talents like dancing or singing after they offer him a cup of tea.

Changkyun admits that, yes, it’s all very impressive and that, yes, every one of Hoseok’s concubines are exceedingly charming and enticing. (Even though he’s absolutely sick of it, he hasn’t been able to say no to a single cup of tea this entire time).

Yet, the thing that every concubine seems to share is the unsettling feeling that runs down his spine every time he makes eye contact with one of them. For all of their delicate hands and soft voices, there’s something dark in their eyes that makes him feel like a pinned butterfly. It’s as if, behind their beautiful facade, they want to hold him down and slowly rip off his metaphorical wings, one by one, until he’s left truly defenseless for the taking.

The thought of it makes him automatically shiver, and he looks up to smile apologetically at the boy in front of him. The concubine, Youngjae, bows his head daintily before gathering his cup and taking his leave. He tosses a stare over his shoulder, black and unreadable, as he strolls back to his spot.

One more down, Changkyun thinks, rubbing a hand roughly across his face. At this rate, he’s either going to die of overhydration or swear off tea for the rest of life. Both options seem just as equally appealing, and he decides he’ll choose based on how many more cups of tea he’ll have to knock back this afternoon.

He schools his face into a less dead expression and turns toward Hoseok, signaling that he’s ready. Surprisingly, the older man opens his fan and tilts it over his mouth at such an angle so that his expression can only be seen by Changkyun. He lightly mouths “ _one left_ ” before snapping his fan shut and flicking it in his usual manner to summon the last concubine.

Changkyun wants to jump up and scream ecstatically in joy, but fortunately, he manages to contain himself. Finally, his body fills with limitless sparks of energy, and he jolts up, back straight as he gladly looks forward to the end of this torture session.

The last concubine approaches from the very last spot of the last row, making their way up with long strides and a sense of urgency that the previous concubines seemed to lack. From the distance, Changkyun can’t discern much about the person’s sex, but he does note with some curiosity at the colors they have chosen to wear: a muted lilac _jeogori_ and a pale, almost sheer peach _chima._ It’s rather unusual, considering that the finest _hanboks_ have the brightest, most hued colors and that the concubines were apparently supposed to dress in their best today. Despite his overwhelming anticipation for the end of the ceremony, he can feel himself becoming slightly intrigued.

As the concubine walks closer and closer, the prince determines that they are most definitely a man. Wide shoulders, a broad figure, and a tall height all become evident as he draws to a rushed stop in front of Hoseok. He goes through the typical motions of kneeling before the First Consort and pressing a kiss to his hand - except that this time, Changkyun can’t help but notice a few things. The concubine’s face is round, almost adorably so with puffy cheeks that speak of the most lovely, genuine smiles. When he lifts his lips away from Hoseok’s hand, the prince can see just how full they are as they appear to perk naturally into a perfect heart shape. Changkyun automatically traces the shiny curve of the boy’s top lip, idly wondering if they’re truly as soft as they seem to be.

“Crown prince, meet the last of your guests for today - Lee Jooheon. He’s still relatively new to the house, but I’m sure you can see why he was chosen to take part today.” Hoseok smirks, watching Jooheon fiddle nervously with his hands in his lap.

Changkyun watches, enraptured, as color flushes all the way across Jooheon’s cheeks to the tips of his ears. The other boy still refuses to look up and make eye contact with him, much unlike the terrifying directness of his fellow concubines. For once today, Changkyun doesn’t feel like he’s going to be eaten alive.

“Jooheon,” Hoseok gently prompts, causing the concubine to rapidly snap to attention. “Why don’t you pour the prince his last cup of tea today, hmm?”

The flush grows even stronger across the boy’s cheeks, and he quickly pulls himself over to sit in front of the tea table. He finally raises his head to meet Changkyun’s gaze, albeit quite shyly, and asks “Would Your Highness like a cup of tea?” with a quiet wavering tone. This time, Changkyun accepts it wholeheartedly without any hesitation at all, the bright shine of Jooheon’s pupils still illuminated in his mind.

When they had made eye contact, Changkyun saw only the slight shaking of nervousness in warm brown pools; there were no secrets, no thorns, nor any daggers affixing him to the spot and promising him certain death if he had come a step closer. No, Jooheon’s pupils were so clear he swears he could have seen his own reflection staring straight back at him when their eyes had met.

The concubine completes the “ceremony” just as all the others did: taking out a cup, shaking back his sleeves, and pouring carefully with grace and finesse. However, this time Changkyun pays particular attention to his hands. Smooth and dexterous just like the others’ before him, they grasp the teapot with extreme care as Jooheon works to pour out an even stream. Compared to the rest of the concubine’s body, they’re surprisingly small and fine-boned, curving out widely around the joints only to taper off into delicate points at the tips of his fingers. Changkyun is gripped by the sudden compulsion to see them hooking around the silk strings of his new _guzheng._

To his surprise, before offering him the cup of tea, Jooheon shields it with a lilac sleeve, ducking down to lightly blow across the surface. He adamantly goes at it for a few moments before bashfully holding it out for the prince to take.

Just before Changkyun can (eagerly) accept the offering, it’s near jolted out of the concubine’s hands when Hoseok suddenly speaks up. “How do you think our prince looks today Jooheon?” Changkyun quickly wraps his own hands around the cup, saving it from a devastating fall, but also inadvertently covering the other boy’s hands with his own and trapping the cup within their two grips. Simultaneously, they both begin to fumble with the cup, fingers tangling awkwardly until it’s finally solely within Changkyun’s grasp. Jooheon glances away, gently slipping lilac sleeves back down his arms to cover up his exposed hands.  

“He, he looks fine,” the concubine stutters, resolutely making eye contact with only the tea table. Hoseok grins slyly, idly hooking the fan under his chin. “We were arguing earlier about how presentable the crown prince looks today. I think that he looks quite handsome - wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Jooheon murmurs softly, continuing to gaze downward even as Changkyun sees the tips of his ears tinge softly with pink.

Hoseok sighs, fanning himself laxly. “Well, that’s that then. Our little prince _did_ look pretty today no matter how much he tries to deny it.”

The blushing concubine rushes to stand up, keeping his head lowered as he delivers a deep bow before hurrying back to his spot with the same urgency he arrived with. Changkyun dazedly watches him go the entire way.

The First Consort yawns widely, hiding it behind his fan as he wipes gently at the moisture gathered at the corners his eyes. When he finishes, he scans up and down the line of concubines before waving loosely at them, declaring, “You are all free to leave now.”

The two orderly rows immediately dissolve into a mass of floating colors that drift slowly through the open palace gates. Changkyun tries to covertly spot a blob of lilac and peach, but it’s lost in a sea of bright pinks and greens.

Once every concubine has disappeared through doorway, Hoseok feigns fatigue with a long sigh, hiding his mouth behind a draped sleeve. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the prince with a hazy cloud over his head, expression slightly wonderstruck.

“So,” he chances to ask, “did any of my dolls catch your eye today?”

“No.” Changkyun answers, gaze searching past the still-open doorway.

“Really now?” Hoseok’s eyes narrow. “Was all my planning for naught then?”

“I suppose it was.” The prince replies, but there’s none of the usual bite in his tone. Instead, he’s still staring dazedly into the distance, fingers tracing over the rim of a leftover tea cup as he mulls over his thoughts.

“Who left that cup behind?” Hoseok questions, even though he knows fully well who it was.

“The last one. Lee Jooheon.” Changkyun mumbles, rolling the small teacup back and forth on his open palm.

 _Ah_. Hoseok sees it all: the boy most definitely took to at least _one_ of his concubines. He never would’ve expected it, but somehow he can’t say he’s surprised in the least. He grins furtively, attempting to hide it behind the sharp edge of his fan. “I should take that back and return it to him,” he proposes casually, already reaching out for the teacup.

The prince jerks out of his daze to cradle the teacup protectively to his chest, eyes blazing wildly. Hoseok raises an eyebrow at the sudden movement. Changkyun quickly opens his mouth to try and explain. “I mean I’ll-”

The First Consort stands up in a flurry of silk, smoothing down the fabric before he waves off the boy’s jerky excuse. “If you want a new teacup that badly, go ahead and keep it. We have plenty left to use in the house, Jooheon can just get a new one.”

Changkyun stares moodily at the blue sparrows painted across the cup and wisely keeps his mouth shut.

Hoseok starts to leave, slipping away in a silken trail before he turns back towards the prince with one last piece of advice. “The night of your birthday will arrive in just two days. I’ll leave you to deliberate on your own as to what the best choice is. Keep in mind though, true beauty can only be seen through a person’s eyes - not their body, clothes, nor anything else.” With that he disappears through the doorway, leaving Changkyun alone in the spacious courtroom.

 _True beauty from the eyes and not the body, huh?_ he thinks, laying flat on his back as he holds the teacup towards the sky. He examines it carefully between his thumb and index finger before chucking it into the air and catching it with one hand. Changkyun clutches the cold china to his chest, lightly stroking a finger over the rough indents of painted wings. There’s no question as to what his choice will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title inspired by a saying i found somewhere online at 3 am. thank you for sticking with this story so far i'm very honored if you're reading this. please leave a comment telling me what you think so far, any and all thoughts welcome!  
> hit me up on tumblr: [*](https://happycakestories.tumblr.com/)  
> Update: I realized I forgot about this completely, but I should tell y'all that this fic will unfortunately be put on a month long hiatus as I will be gone in a place completely without wifi in about a week or so. I'm sorry to spring this on y'all as this fic has just started but I will be sure to work on this fic on paper while I'm gone! Thank you for reading!


	3. ply a man's mind with drink but his heart with love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimly, Changkyun tips back the cup of soju to the winking half-moon and thinks with a heart-aching sigh, I want to be the one you choose tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pops streamers* hey happy thanksgiving. i'm still alive. thank you if you're still here with this story. 
> 
> shoutout to manuela u the bomb :)
> 
> here are some important words: gihye-shoes, jeogori-upper garment of a hanbok, heoritti-an undergarment for the chest, godarisokgot-underwear, sok-baji-underpants to be worn over the underwear, chima-skirt, soju-alchohol, gayageum-string instrument, daegum-flute, guzheng-chinese gayageum
> 
> here is jooheon's look :) [*](https://scarletexorcist.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/2.jpg?w=200&h=300)

One day before his birthday, and Changkyun swears he’s seeing things.

Every passing hint of birdsong has him whirling around, a flash of bashful pink cheeks on the edge of his vision, only to see the waving petal of a budding flower taunting him with a puckered smile instead.

The scenery from the palace grounds fare no better either. Changkyun finds himself scrutinizing each and every laughing gaggle of servants, stoic guards, and of course, whispering concubines, convinced somehow he’s spotted a familiar figure hidden within their midsts. Lately, even the golden glint of passing dinner trays have stopped him in the middle of bustling passageways, sure that he saw the curve of a shy smile reflecting across their polished surfaces.  

His hand, brush poised in its locked grip, pauses, stilted at that last image, and fresh ink begins pooling out of its fine horse-hair bristles, wearing a soaking mark into the otherwise unmarred scroll. Changkyun snaps out of his absent-minded daze too late and watches, helpless, as a hole spreads and tears its way through his fresh parchment, eating up every bit of white paper its amorphous jaws come into contact with.

So much for getting it right on the first try, the prince thinks bitterly as he shoves the scroll aside, irrational anger twisting like a disturbed snake through the coil of his stomach as the paper folds onto the floor with a resounding _fwip._ He frowns, staring intensely at its rumpled form, willing it with every ounce of his frustrated concentration to somehow unravel over the desk again, unsullied and immaculate under winter’s wavering morning light.

That was the last of it too, his supply of clean parchments, and the only way for him to gain access to more is through the orderly stockpile of various writing materials in his tutor’s study, located at the complete opposite end of the palace. Changkyun’s feet twinge in protest at the thought of walking that entire distance just for some flimsy sheets of pressed wood fibers, and he grimaces in silent agreement. He considers sending a servant or guard in his stead, but then the memory of Kihyun’s study pops into mind, chests and drawers lining every conceivable stretch of its walls, practically overflowing with various inks, brushes, and scrolls, and Changkyun decides, for the sake of his time and sanity, on against putting an unassuming servant through that kind of torture. After all, he’s had years to accustom himself to Kihyun’s filing system, and he still finds himself leaving the room with an aching back and a pounding headache, no thanks to its owner’s perpetual habit of nagging whenever the opportunity arises. Just thinking about Kihyun’s endless reprimands sparks a jolt of deep-set pain between his furrowed brows.

Still, he physically forces his stone leaden body to its feet, knees creaking and popping in tandem to the low moaning of a light draft brushing by outside. Changkyun shivers in his casually tucked robes at the chilling sound and questions why he’s going to put himself through this torture so close to his birthday.

A reply comes in the form of the golden, blushing reflection mirrored into his wide gaze from the memory of a passing dinner platter, and Changkyun can feel his entire being release a slow, aching sigh at the vivid image, the audible sound of it winding its way up through his throat and out from his lips on a trail of limpid smoke.

He hastily ties on a fur-lined cloak, waiting for its cozy warmth to settle around his shoulders before finally stepping out into winter’s beckoning grasp, its grey seamless clouds glimmering with half-formed illusions and the promise of clean parchment.

 

-

 

Midday and the morning sun is drooped halfway down the bleak yellow sky. Minhyuk peeks into the tea room through a thin sliver in the propped-open doorway and is met immediately with a sprawl of groggy stares from his fellow concubines, half-clad in pools of silk as draped inky curtains of their long loose hair reflect the winter’s sunshine in sleek rivers of winding light.

Minhyuk waves placidly, already beginning to feel the dark intensity of their combined stares bore painfully into his forehead. He throws the nest a quick grin before slipping back through the door, leaving the dozing concubines to coil back under their filtered cover of darkness. Safe, he sighs internally, deflating against the wooden frame as a wave of relief washes over the sweat on his skin with a chilling draft.

Still, no sign of dimpled cheeks and plush, peony lips - Jooheon’s been missing from the moment the rooster’s proud crow blasted through the courtyard to the now smattering sing-song of daytime sparrows. At this point, Minhyuk doubts he’ll magically appear the moment the sun finally slips into its hazy mold within the winter sky.

Well then, he supposes, pushing off of the hard wood with a dragging reluctance, it’s apparently now his job to personally find Jooheon - or else, he shudders as a certain figure’s painted smile pops into mind, the First Consort will have both their hides before the day is up. His back tingles simultaneously with the brush of a passing draft, and the crackling _snap_ of a whip ghosts through his imagination in a wordless warning. Minhyuk shudders in place, the harrowing echo of begging cries unearthing themselves from the dark recesses of his memory. He’s only heard the consequences of such punishments through layers of sturdy wood, but well...he’s in no way eager to find out what a first-hand experience consists of at the moment.

A beady-eyed duck squawks at him from a lone pond, and Minhyuk makes a point to stare it down until its bulging gaze finally turns away from his squinted own. That’s at least one victory he can count in his favor during this disastrous morning, he decides as he kicks a rounded pebble over the uneven ground with a vicious conviction.

The grey stone skitters off the rounded tip of his _gihye_ and skips erratically towards the exact direction of where he should be heading. Another subtle chill brushes up along his spine, and Minhyuk yields with an audible stomp against the loose gravel as he begins traveling towards the opposing row of empty servicing chambers. At least, they _should_ all be devoid of any clients and concubines at this point, save for hopefully the last room, sitting separate at the end of the row from all others, distinctly different in its own right. Perhaps, that’s why Minhyuk finds Jooheon spending nights in that lonely pavilion more often than not. He strides across an arched bridge way, the image of that little room already situated in his mind’s eye, and he hopes that the younger concubine decided to stay consistent with last night’s client.

The guarded border to the Scarlet Residence looms insurmountable at the base of the courtyard’s quaint bridge, and Minhyuk’s heart starts up its usual nervous jittering at the terribly familiar sight. He’s never had any trouble with entering the place before, especially on nights where he’s got his own collection of clients to service, but the gated wall between the living quarters and the gilded rooms is just that - a concrete line of stone between one world and another. Without the soothing cloak of night to bring him his painted mask, Minhyuk feels like another person entirely, a stranger trespassing into a place where he doesn’t belong.

Still, the statuesque guards recognize him easily even without of any of his glittering hairpins or sultry, powder-smeared stares, and they push aside the double doors of the creaking wooden gate to allow him entry.

Minhyuk ducks his gaze to the ground, nodding silently as he lifts his skirts over the wooden step at the gate’s base. The silken layers shift too noisily, like the popping of burnt cooking oil, and Minhyuk quickly straightens to observe the deserted silence of the courtyard. Even with the noon sun watching high from its perch in the sky, the entire residence is only flooded with drabby grey shadow. The skeletons of starved trees hunch aged in the pale light, a poor imitation of their ripe summer selves. It’s still the early dredges of winter after all, but Minhyuk can’t tamp down on the surge of hesitant sadness pulsing within him at such a depressing sight.

Well, it makes sense, considering that the only view he receives of this place is hidden under dim lamplight, flickering every so often as he’s smothered down by heavy, aching flesh. The night brings with it a different realm entirely, Minhyuk thinks, grimacing as he relives every one of his client’s heated, wanton touches.

Likewise, the rooms also remain shuttered and desolate as empty as the rest of its bare surroundings. A passing servant would think nothing of the silence, but Minhyuk suspects - no he’s _absolutely_ sure of it - that there must be at least one inhabitant in this dreary place at the moment, excluding him of course. The last room sits hidden behind innumerable, identical others, but he wastes no time in speculating and begins striding in its unmoving direction with groaning, creaking steps.

The wooden landing protests louder than he ever remembers it doing so during his nighttime outings, but Minhyuk adamantly brings the heel of his _gihye_ down harder than before, forcing his self-made racket to tear through the daytime’s stifling silence. Some optimistic part of him entertains the idea of Jooheon voluntarily awakening from all the noise he’s making and presumably tidying himself up before emerging in front of Minhyuk with his signature dimples on show, ready to brighten up this so far dragging uneventful day.

But alas, Minhyuk finds himself stilling in front of the shut door of the screened pavilion with no sign of Jooheon’s cheerful visage anywhere in sight. The wood protests petulantly as he shifts in place, left foot to right, in a last-ditch effort to wake up his assumedly dozing friend. The creaking fades, quickly replaced with the whistling of the wind, but no sign of movement - nothing.  _Hopeless_ , Minhyuk decides, huffing a visible sigh into the air as he finally slides the door open with a decisive _clack._

And there he is, sprawled across the floor on a silken spread of smooth mauve and fine lavender, dark head tilted back in the perfect picture of innocent seduction. A light snuffle escapes from parted lips, and Minhyuk’s heart melts as fast as the diffusing of pungent cleansing oils through warm bath water - but only for a single, soft moment.

In a split second, Jooheon’s snore breaks, half-formed from his perked mouth as the weight of an entire body crashes down over his own. He chokes on a whistling breath and snaps wide awake, brown eyes blinking fitfully at the shadow looming heavy over him. Minhyuk meets Jooheon’s hazy stare with a glower, looking over creased lids smeared with the soft confusion of a long night and wayward streaks of black drying in uneven trails over fluttering lashes. The younger concubine’s mussed makeup and hazy stare paired with the distinct lack of a proper _jeogori_ around the curve of his exposed shoulders almost convinces Minhyuk to let up and allow Jooheon to fall right back to some much needed sleep again. Almost.

Instead, he’s dragging his friend upright by one flopping, unwilling arm, his own knees still digging harshly in between the other’s shifting thighs. Which, speaking of, are just as exposed as his upper half, if not perhaps more so, and Minhyuk pinches the open expanse of a relaxed calf, immediately jolting Jooheon awake as he thrashes sullenly in the older concubine’s hold.

“Hyung, come on-” he mumbles, plea breaking off in the middle of a lilting yawn that shows off the trail of red and purple marks dotting down the long stretch of his bare neck. “Can you let me off for once? Please, just for today?” He finishes with a swollen pout, the noon sun pooling with the sweet consistency of honey within slim brown orbs, and Minhyuk’s mouth pointedly twitches in its flat line of stony displeasure.

“Most definitely _not_ ,” he counters as he delivers a merciless pinch to the vulnerable flesh of Jooheon’s inner thigh. He receives a hoarse yelp and an increased bout of fervid wriggling from the heaving body locked strictly under his own.

Another drawn out cry of “hyung!” winds out from Jooheon’s full pout, and it settles tightly around Minhyuk’s pulsing heart as the trapped concubine attempts to roll out from under his friend’s fixed weight. The fruitless struggle only pulls a sloppily tied _heoritti_ even further down Jooheon’s barely covered chest, allowing a dusky pink nipple to slip unabashedly into the muted sunlit view. Minhyuk’s critical stare instantly focuses onto the innocently exposed appendage, and he can’t hold back the fond sigh that spreads fuzzily through his lungs to the rest of his tensed body.

“Have I taught you nothing about maintaining at least a modicum of decency at all times?” Jooheon blinks blearily in silent confusion as a slender hand comes to pat lightly at his upturned cheek and hazelnut eyes glazed gently with the noon’s emerging sunshine gaze upon him with open, vulnerable affection.

“What decency?” he asks, an easy giggle slipping out as Minhyuk’s overbearing weight finally lifts itself off of his numbed legs. Socked feet pass carefully over his head, and Jooheon lazily rolls onto his stomach and watches, chin hooked into the crook of his palms as the older concubine begins rummaging through the mess of silk robes and scattered sheets left over from last night’s passion-filled proceedings.

Jooheon begins kicking his feet back and forth through the chilled air, hoping to make time pass faster as he observes MInhyuk’s growing agitation from short bursts of head shaking to low agitated mutterings. It means the tangled mess from yesterday is only growing exponentially worse, and Jooheon cocks his head to the side, tracing the now sideways curve of Minhyuk’s bent back as he debates calling off this whole search and just sneaking back half-naked instead.

Fortunately, luck makes itself known when the tense line of the older man’s spine straightens, and he’s shuffling back with his arms piled full of shining, if not slightly wrinkled, silks, their intricate weaves reflecting the light with the most brilliant refractions of lilac and blue. Jooheon blows a pouted raspberry at the slim figure poised expectantly before him, flopping to the floor in a vague manner of resistance to being clad again in the sweat (and slick) soaked remnants of last night’s services.

A socked toe taps pointedly in his direct line of sight, and Jooheon forcefully pushes himself upright with a slow popping of his joints and a deep ache twinging painfully within his lower back.

“The younger clients are always such a piece of work once they get going, aren’t they?” Minhyuk coos sympathetically as he drops gently to his knees in a quiet flurry of silk, pale yellow skirts pooling around him in an effervescent halo. He sets the bundle of discarded clothing next to him, delicately fishing through indistinct pieces until he finds what he’s been looking for - an indigo-blue _jeogori_ glittering under the sun’s rays with the luster of spring’s fresh salmon, their scales glinting like precious jewels under the rushing waters of Minhyuk’s fond childhood memories.

“As if,” Jooheon snorts openly, the abrupt sound of it pulling the older concubine’s mind away from clusters of salmon flooding through shallow rivers, clamoring around a cupped handful of feed as their large mouths gape open in hungry, hiccupping gasps. He blinks shakily, sunlight piercing harshly past his dazed stare as he looks down at the shiny _jeogori_ laid across his lap and shakingly recognizes it for what it is - pretty, but only a piece of lifeless cloth.

He tells himself it must be the tightly strung tension from preparations for the crown prince’s upcoming birthday celebration. After all, the entire court has been a bubble of ever-expanding stress from the moment the first hint of the new year’s sun turned its rosy pale cheek ever so slightly across the frozen land. Birthday preparations have been going on for the better half of the season, and the majority of the palace, Minhyuk included, are absolutely ready for the frenzy of it all to end after tomorrow’s loud, lavish, and very expensive celebration.

And speaking of preparations, Jooheon definitely has more than a bit of preparing to do for tomorrow’s late evening performance, a performance that Minhyuk knows the younger has spent none of his time practicing for. The stressful reminder of it brings up another lethargic pang within his already weary heart, and he imagines simply laying down and closing his eyes for the barest of moments, forgetting clients, etiquette, court performances, and his image as he’s finally allowed to freely laze about under the noon sun with the haughty satisfaction of one of the cook’s overweight cats.   

The intangible yearning for such an opportunity wavers deep to the very marrow of his bones, and Minhyuk slips his eyes shut, fancying the thought of having an afternoon like that to himself for just an idealistic moment before his lids snap open and he’s suddenly staring at the bare curve of Jooheon’s idle back with a burning intensity.

An unbidden yelp falls from Jooheon’s mouth when a sharp pinch stings over the slouched neck, and he whips around to meet the elder’s don’t-you-dare-argue-with-me-today glare plastered tight over his slender face. Jooheon meekly lowers his gaze and automatically raises his goosebumped arms from the wordless prompt of Minhyuk’s intense, unflinching stare.

The trail end of incomprehensible mutters float through the empty room as the older concubine methodically weaves intricate patterns over and around Jooheon’s bare chest, securing layer after layer as whispers of “- _no practice at all...how do you even expect...he’ll have our hides for sure_ -” coat his too attentive ears with vague but pointed threats.

The indistinct mutterings finally end as skinny fingers finish tying off the delicate knot of his outer jacket, placing it right over the center of his chest as Minhyuk presses his lips together in a tight line of faint satisfaction. He bobs his head unconsciously, scanning over Jooheon’s clothed state with a sense of silent approval. The younger concubine can only stare upwards, wide-eyed as the other’s tall shadow stretches over his face, blocking out the shallow sunlight entirely.

“I trust that at this point you can put on your own _godarisokgot_ without my help anymore, right?” Jooheon flushes at the other’s tone, too light to be truly demeaning, but also flat enough to be devoid of its usual warmth, and he mumbles out a hasty assent as he starts to fumble with the plain strip of cloth in his lap.

He should be ashamed that even as he’s messily bunching his skirts over his waist and winding the _godarisokgot_ between his legs, he’s still thinking about all the times Minhyuk’s smooth fingers had grazed soothingly over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs as the older man had tied on the undergarment for him with calm, experienced patience. Jooheon doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to dress himself with such grace, much less help others, but every time the issue arises worriedly within his mind, it always seems to reach the same conclusion.

“ _Let hyung take care of you okay?_ ”

The words echo in tauntingly along with the blinding flash of Minhyuk’s first welcoming smile towards him, and Jooheon pouts sullenly as the memory teases heartlessly at the bulky knot now situated uncomfortably over his hip. Well, it’s the best he’ll ever get with his own clumsy skills - he can always ask for help re-tying it later when the older concubine is hopefully in a better mood. With a final sigh, he drops the ballooned skirts back over his bare legs and ambles awkwardly over to the other’s still-turned back with rustling swishes of heavy silk.

Without even looking over at him, Minhyuk immediately asks, “Where is your _sok-baji_?” Jooheon stutters to a stop and attempts to come up with a reasonable answer before finally admitting to the plain truth after a stretching span of stilted deliberation.

“I-I didn’t wear them yesterday, or um, night really…” Minhyuk sighs out something that suspiciously sounds like “decency” as he continues staring out the segmented window with a turned back.

Jooheon fidgets in place, shuffling his distinctly bare, _sok-baji_ \- less thighs together as he tries to find the right thing to say in the face of the elder’s sour mood. In the end, after trying out excuse after unfitting excuse, he settles on a tremoring apology. “Minhyuk hyung,” he prompts, tugging timidly at a still, pale yellow sleeve and drawing a dark stare to turn hawk-like upon him in response. “I’m sorry…” he murmurs, voice trailing into the susurrous silence of brittle leaves whirling in the wind and birdsong whispering through the breeze as all semblance of eloquence disappears from the tip of his swollen tongue.

Jooheon closes his eyes, fingers still pinched around the cloth sleeve of Minhyuk’s _jeogori_ as he awaits the inevitable disdain that will come his way. Agonizing moments pass before a sigh drawls out long and lax into the space between them, and the thin silk slips out from between his crumpled grip. He clenches his eyes shut tighter, thinking that this is it for the chance of Minhyuk ever being in a good mood for today, and he waits nervously for the well-deserved lecture to begin battering mercilessly over his bowed head.

However, there’s only a light pull at his right cheek, and he blinks upward to see the other concubine’s face wrinkled in an exaggerated frown. “Stop making that face,” he crows, pulling farther as if to mold Jooheon’s full cheek into a lopsided smile. “Are you trying to make me sad?” He sticks out his bottom lip in a terrible impersonation of the grouchy ducks in the garden ponds, quacking crudely whenever anyone wanders near.

Jooheon gives in, a burst of laughter escaping from him as his lips pull into a genuine smile, dimples settling deep within their familiar places at the corners of his mouth. Minhyuk’s staged expression melts into a wide grin as well, and he can’t stop himself from soothing a finger over the soft indents in Jooheon’s face as small giggles bounce from parted lips into his cupped palm.

“So,” he starts once the younger man’s melodious laughter has retreated back within his hiccuping chest, “is there any reason you haven’t been practicing your part in the performance for the prince’s evening dinner?”

“Oh-” Jooheon flushes, all traces of merriment gone as the atmosphere grows stagnant again. Minhyuk waits, unrelentingly patient, and Jooheon mumbles out something rushed and incomprehensible to try and appease the other’s piercing stare.

He’s met with a full eye-roll of obvious exasperation as the older concubine motions for him to repeat himself with a flick of a long finger. Jooheon grazes his teeth worryingly over his bottom lip, testing out hushed words against his tongue before finally uttering them out loud in a hasty expulsion. “I’d rather the prince not see me perform at all.”

“And why is that?” Minhyuk counters immediately, no sign of any emotion but mild annoyance flickering across his face.

“Because...because,” Jooheon starts, stuttering over his own tangled thoughts. “I may have almost spilled hot tea all over him at the ceremony a few days ago.”

Silence. Even the crinkling of fallen leaves have disappeared in the aftermath of Jooheon’s devastating admission. The younger concubine holds his breath, wishing that he could somehow suffocate himself into a state of forgetfulness.

“Oh, Jooheonie~” A gasping chuckle erupts through the silence as Minhyuk doubles over, words breaking into choppy syllables through his suffocating, breathless giggles. “Only you, of course, only you would do something-” he chokes on another fit of laughter, “-like this.” He finally manages to gasp out the rest of the stilted statement, forcefully clamping a hand over his own aching smile.

Jooheon stands across from his shaking friend, glowering silently through the peals of laughter as his cheeks grow redder and redder with each passing chortle. He can only muster up a weak “shut up hyung” as the older concubine collapses around him with a loose embrace, his short giggles ghosting over Jooheon’s neck in warm puffs of broken breath.

“Look, if he wasn’t interested before,” Minhyuk whispers, and Jooheon can already feel the fond imprint of a smile pressing into his skin, “I’m sure he most definitely is now.”

It’s the younger man’s turn to roll his eyes, even if his heart beats just a fraction harder at the implications behind the other’s clichéd statement. “Can we just go to the performance rehearsal now?” he whines, hoping to put his amateur mistake behind him.

“Sure, but not before you actually finish putting on your underwear first.” Another fit of giggles ensure, matched in part by an embarrassed gasp. The sparrows titter and groom restlessly through their downy feathers as they wait for the sing-song of human laughter to die down. The sun leans languidly from its perch in the sky, watching over it all with one open eye, knowing it will be a while before the lighthearted sound disappears.

The day before the consummation of the ceremony passes by in a state of ordinary mundanity for all.

 

*

 

The celebration commences in the first hours of the early morning with a literal bang.

Changkyun sits up, hunched and motionless among his rumpled bedcovers, still blinking away the vestiges of rose-tipped dreams under the hazy grey-blue shadows of his drawn canopy. Another explosive firecracker sounds dimly from the distance, and he waits for the shaking echoes of it to settle into muffled silence before exhaling with a full-bodied yawn. He blinks groggily, squinting at the outline of his own feet curled in faint mounds under the blankets, and slowly, he wiggles his bare toes against the silken folds, some part of his mind still not fully cognizant of the fact that what he’s seeing is no longer the remnant of a fading dream.

When the blanketed lumps correspond perfectly with the shifting of his toes, Changkyun releases another deep sigh and flops right back onto his bed, throwing an arm carelessly over his pulsing vision as the gears in his mind finally wind themselves into a state of functioning consciousness.

It’s his birthday today. He’s twenty years old now.

His stomach gurgles needily at the same time another firecracker pops into the sky, seemingly much closer than the last one, and Changkyun frowns under the temporary cover of his bare arm. The warm scent of his blankets curls through the lightening shadows and cocoon around him with soft, silky whispers, rasping and rustling for him to forget about it all and to just go back to sleep as he usually does. Changkyun frowns harder at their illusory suggestions and purposefully launches himself upright, the sudden vertigo of the rushed movement scrambling away any of the mussed suggestions from his groggy mind.

Why is it that, on his birthday of all days, he can only feel a distinct...lack of excitement. In fact, besides the general grey simmer of apathy and the whining of his empty stomach, Changkyun quite literally can’t bring himself to muster up any kind of emotion for such a magnanimous day. He grimaces as another signal of his annual celebration booms whole-heartedly from outside the hushed walls of his quarters.

He drags his sleep-swollen body out of the bed’s tangled embrace, a careless yawn spilling out from cracked lips as he ambles over to a shuttered window. He unhooks the latch and pushes the two sides open, immediately wincing from the sudden burst of cold air that brushes knife-like past his cheek as the wooden frames clatter insistently in some kind of earnest, wordless congratulations.

 _Ka-pow_! A series of crackling pops erupt through the frigid air, coinciding with a much larger explosion of color in the sky, and Changkyun rests his elbows on the freezing window sill as he leans out and meets the crinkled gaze of a familiar face.

“Happy birthday cousin,” Hyungwon calls with an easy perk of his lips, tucking a hand loosely into the wide sheath of his other sleeve. His slender figure cuts a rich silhouette of maroon and dark brown across the barren background of Changkyun’s dull, lifeless courtyard. A miniature bunch of firecrackers sizzle excitedly at his feet, still attempting to spark with joyous life even as their popping embers splutter weaker with every passing moment. However, as he watches them dance maniacally over the cracked stone with their last vestiges of chemical energy under Hyungwon’s amused gaze, something warm and alive stirs pleasantly within Changkyun’s sluggish heart again.

“Happy birthday to me,” he declares, ducking an aching grin into his clammy palm.

Hyungwon’s eyes crinkle under his unruly bangs, the wind stirring them into silken wisps that wave through the air like dark strands of wild grass, and Changkyun presses his curled smile even further into his palm at the comical sight.

Maybe he’s starting to look forward to his birthday after all.

 

-

 

Drinking, Changkyun decides firmly, tipping back another shallow cup of _soju_ , should become his new favorite pastime.

The [plucky stringing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqOxnrpnn_o) of a symphony of _gayageums_ weaves rhythmically through the pleasant burn of alcohol fogging up his throat and into his mind. Every one of his senses flare wildly in protest as he gulps down his nth cup of the offending liquid, eyes tearing, nostrils fuming, and stomach twisting in unhappy rejection. It all makes Changkyun’s head slip dangerously low to the table for a moment before he rights himself with a jaunty jerk of his swaying shoulders. Again, his body roils in rejection to the strange liquid coursing through it, pleading achingly for a cup of plain bitter tea instead, but Changkyun only sighs, delightfully drunk, and waves a servant over for more.

The palace lanterns are dazzling, shining with colors he’s never even seen before, and the music - _oh the music!_

A servant returns with another bottle of _soju_ , filled to the brim with a little extra spilling down its sides, and Changkyun drinks directly from its curved lip, pursing his mouth over its open head in a wet, sloppy kiss as he foregoes the cup entirely. A coy voice warbles headily through the strumming of taut strings, and he hums along, removing the delicate china from his mouth in a drooping salute towards the vague direction of the lilting song.

The world glitters and sways with the gentle rocking of a seaside boat, the singular hum of his mother’s faceless embrace lulling him to sleep with a docile crash of waves into the hull of his tilting mind. Changkyun smiles blearily at the strange, indistinct memory, fingers already groping headily for the smooth bottleneck again.

“That’s enough for now, crown prince.”

Changkyun’s fingers slip sluggishly through thin air, grazing just barely at a cold curved edge before they grip thoroughly at nothing. He whips around, or at least attempts to with the best of his slack motor skills, and meets the calm, critical gaze of his father’s First Consort. The watery, indistinguishable song of his mother’s whispers melts away, gone under the solid command of Shin Huibin’s piercing voice. A hot surge of anger shoots up through Changkyun’s raw throat, and without a thought, he’s slamming a heavy hand down onto the table, rattling fine dishes and platters into a state of stunning disarray.

Hoseok watches the prince’s little outburst pass without a single flicker over his painted expression. When Changkyun attempts to grope hazily for the bottle again, he jerks it away, placing it fully at his side where he knows the prince wouldn’t ever dare reach for. After all, Hoseok thinks, a slight tremor of nervousness passing through him, Changkyun will need at least a semblance of his wits about him when the true event of the night comes to pass.

“No more drinking for now,” he urges with a light push at the prince’s hunched back. He ignores the pointed flinch he receives against his barely-there touch and waves a sleeved hand over to the cleared floor, directing Changkyun’s wavering attention to the subtle change in music. “The performance is about to begin,” he prompts softly, settling his hand back down onto his lap.

[Bells](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGZO-kWlUko), jingling softly across the wide hall, are the first sounds Changkyun’s ears pick up on. Shadowed outlines he had never noticed before are suddenly apparent in the dim lighting, posed motionless before their enraptured audience. A solitary _daegum_ whistles through the rustling silver bells in a teasing drawl, and the figures begin moving, bobbing perfectly to the elegant, light-hearted rhythm. Changkyun sprawls forward, leaning over the table in an attempt to make out any of the possible identities of the gracefully hidden dancers.

The pattering of tinkling silver bells and a single soulful flute are suddenly layered over with the descending wave of a trilling _gayageum_ , creating something that to Changkyun’s alcohol-addled mind resembles the first smattering of raindrops trailing over resplendent leaves, cupped open and ready for spring’s rich thunderstorms. The figures erupt into movement, bunching out of their coiled shadows with a twist of their fingers and a sensual cock of their hips into a burst of glowing lamplight.

Changkyun watches, jaw dropped as dancers clad in fluttering green and sheer yellow skirts float across the floor before him with glittering dark gazes and lavish red smiles. Even as they wave flower emblazoned fans across their faces in coy embarrassment, Changkyun is struck by an immediate sensation of deja vú.

“Flowers in the rain,” a whisper trails across his ear, blending in perfectly with the humming _daegums._ “That’s the title of this song.” Hoseok chances a glance at the prince’s expression, one part stunned and the other gaped open in pure, boyish awe. “I take it that you recognize some of my pretty dolls from the previous ceremony?”

Indeed Changkyun does, and every single one of them too. There’s Seolhyun at the center with her long, perfect legs, leading the group again as she meets Changkyun’s wonderstruck gaze every so often with her silky, shadowed own. She trails out of the limelight with a precise toss of a rippling sleeve, and Youngjae spins into her place, hooking Changkyun’s stare to him with a playful perk of his glistening lips. He performs a kneeled variance on Seolhyun’s fleet-footed section, drawing a half-circle from above his head to his cheek with the round edge of his fan as he sways teasingly to the staccatoed plucking of the _gayageum._ Changkyun blinks dazedly, almost losing himself to the subtle curve of the other’s slim waist.

The music changes pace again, a wave of chimes flowing across the background tune of high-pitched _daegums_ , and suddenly another solitary figure is emerging out of the coordinated midst of fluttering silks and swaying fans. A shy gaze flickers over the edge of a cocked fan, catching his own for the barest of moments before it’s whirling away into a series of skipping spins, each foot landing precisely on its previous position as the figure twists over and over again into a brilliant flurry of flashing green sleeves. The drawling echo of the _gayageum_ signals the thrumming close of the song, and Changkyun is on his knees, practically ready to launch himself over the table to try and identify who the spinning dancer is.

Finally, the hum of the various instruments dies down with the light jolt of a single silver bell, followed by the deep drop of a last languid pluck of the _gayageum’s_ strings. The figure slips easily to a stop, arching effortlessly as he dips backward with a careful stare towards somewhere beyond Changkyun’s head, fan held delicately at the edge of a full bottom lip. The other concubines pose in a blooming crown around the lone figure, emulating the vibrant spread of a lotus’s petals, but Changkyun can’t rip his eyes away from the dancer’s wavering own.

It’s the last concubine from the ceremony before - Lee Jooheon. The one who had blown so earnestly across his cup of steaming tea, hoping to cool it, whose curved fingers Changkyun has spent literal nights dreaming about, of them smoothing over the gilded surface of his _guzheng_ \- who has been on Changkyun’s mind for every waking and some sleeping hours ever since he had almost dropped his cup of tea with an undignified yelp.

A smattering of cheers and rabid applause erupts, ripping Changkyun out of his dazed trance. The concubines are already being whisked away, dark hair and translucent wisps of silk trailing behind them as their only haughty acknowledgment of the crowd’s roaring approval. Changkyun jumps shakily to his feet, swaying unsteadily as his mind goes blank, the only thing keeping him upright being the single moment of flickering contact between his searching gaze and Jooheon’s half-lidded own.

A hand latches unflinchingly around his leg, and he glances downwards to meet Hoseok’s sharp look of pointed disapproval. He whips around again, only to see the last hint of green skirts disappear through the entryway, and he immediately sits down with an audible _thump_ of his bottom against the cushions.

A feather-light hand comes to rest over his shoulder as a cup of readily poured _soju_ is tipped across the messy table. “Patience, crown prince. Keep the one you chose in mind for later, alright?” a hushed voice whispers into his ear as another sleeved hand prompts him to drink with a quiet press of the spilling cup into his sweaty palm.

The consort steps away in a dry hush of shifting skirts, leaving Changkyun alone with the _soju_ cupped precariously in hand, drunkenly debating the course of the rest of his night.

He brings the smooth edge to his lips, pausing at flickering memories of slim-eyed arches brushing meekly over his own raw, yearning gaze. Dimly, Changkyun tips back the cup of _soju_ to the winking half-moon and thinks with a heart-aching sigh, _I want to be the one you choose tonight._

 

-

 

“-heon! Jooheon-sshi!”

The owner of said name glances up from a tilted mirror, face half-smeared with heavy stage makeup and green robes pooled lifelessly around his bared waist as Minhyuk’s long fingers pause carefully around a steadfast knot, at-the-ready to continue unlacing the rest of the younger concubine’s intricate outfit.

“The prince-” Dahyun gasps, her plain servant’s braids knocking against blotchy cheeks as she stutters to a sudden stop. She rests her hands on her knees, wrinkling the plain pink cotton of her oversized _chima_ as she folds in half, shuddering in a futile attempt at trying to catch her labored breath. Finally, she perks up with an abrupt inhale, gulping audibly as she meets Jooheon’s worried stare, and she delivers her crucial message with a ramrod-straight back, hands folded perfectly at her waist, and the slightest tremor making its way through her earnest voice.

“The crown prince has chosen you to spend the night of his twentieth birthday with him. Please, prepare yourself immediately.”

 _Clang!_ The mirror clatters to the ground, spinning hastily along its curved metal edge like a poorly made top before flattening to a stop with a tinny echo. The green ties slip like rushing water through Minhyuk’s frozen fingers, and he watches, stock-still, as his friend follows the mirror’s downward descent on a trail of fluttering, translucent silk, collapsing right next to its bare golden face with a poofy _thump._  

Minhyuk digs his fingers tensely into the meat of his palm, swallowing rapidly as he wills himself into action again. His gaze flickers between the trembling line of Jooheon’s hunched spine and Dahyun’s own panicked expression, and he quietly motions for her to go with a slight tip of his head.

There’s work to be done tonight, he decides grimly, folding himself down and around Jooheon’s drawn-in shoulders. And, as the younger man curls into him so helplessly, he knows he must act quickly.

 

-

 

Changkyun hiccups, coughing dryly at the scorching aftertaste that fumes up through his raw throat. His vision swims, the neat spread of blankets on his specially made bed beginning to ooze out of their folded stack and drip as nebulous golden droplets towards the tall expanse of the painted ceiling.

The twin candleholders at the head and foot of the bed flicker again with a series of incandescent colors, flooding Changkyun’s spinning mind with swirling orbs of light that seem to fade away just moments later into the dripping wax of his lavish bed sheets. Blood pulses like a skipping stone across his pounding forehead, and he slowly brings himself upright with a gradual, curved arch of his neck forward, everything in his clouded vision blurring together in hazy uneven motion.

He settles his head straight, the chamber’s heavy screen doors clearly rooted before him in solid imposition before a yellow flame flickers, and the entire world is shifting just so slightly on a tilted angle again. Amidst the liquid dissolution of shapely wood, voices ring out through the thick tactile muck coating Changkyun’s mind, almost indistinguishable as if reaching for him from the bottom of a gurgling river.

“... _chosen? Not an unexpected choice I have to say, but a decent one, crown prince.”_

 _Hoseok?_ Changkyun frowns, turning his gaze upwards, searching through arching rafters for the disembodied voice. He slaps one hand over his left ear, waiting for the whispers to begin again through the cavernous roaring of blood through his head.

“... _luck. It’ll only be for one night, cousin…”_

Now the polished lilt gives way to a quiet murmur, the sound of it crawling down from the high ceiling and settling itself in a comforting coil around his neck, purring with the familiarity of an old family cat. _Hyungwon,_ he acknowledges vaguely, slouching back against the hard edge of the bed frame as a faint impression of his cousin’s anxious farewell hovers over Changkyun’s drooped head.

All memories then, he decides, dragging two palms wearily over his swollen cheeks as the voices fade dryly into the flickering candlelight. He peers through the slitted windows of his fingers and realizes, _god_ , he must be drunk out of his mind because he doesn’t even remember how he ended up in this fully furnished bedroom, completely separate from his last memory of the bustling dining hall.

He suddenly jolts, physically knocked out of his state of confused reminiscence when actual, real-life voices sound right outside the barred doors. A knock rings out, hard and steady against solid wood, and Changkyun scrambles to make himself seem the least bit presentable as to not appear as drunk as he feels right now.

“Your Highness?” An unfamiliar voice, calm and toneless. Most likely one of the rotating guards then.

“Yes,” he replies, coughing at the amount of filmy buildup clogging up his throat. The acute pounding of his heart is all at once filling his ears with sharp clarity, and he draws in a shaking breath, pressing a damp palm over the erratic beat pulsing beneath his skin. “Come in,” he calls, decidedly less of a tremor in his voice this time.

Soft murmurs arise again, quiet and incomprehensible before it all falls into a sudden hush, everything around Changkyun devoid of sound besides the booming drum in his own chest. He sits back, an iron bar in place of his spine, practically bouncing off the bed from the uncontrollable jitter of his leg against the cushions as he forces himself to sit still - and wait.

The twin doors slide open in minute slivers, swinging to the outside with a lengthy _creak._  Changkyun blinks furiously, peering through what he can only describe as the pure darkness of winter’s early nightfall as he searches for the outline of a human presence. Then, a glowing lantern appears, swinging gently from the end of a slender rod as it seemingly floats on its own through the shadows and into his room. Soon a pale hand follows, fingers curled lightly around the dark wood in a smooth, practiced hold. The rest of the arm enters, Changkyun’s throat catching at the flash of a bare wrist before dark, rippling sleeves dance over it in an airy sheath of black silk.

The doors clack shut with a decisive _creak_ , but Changkyun’s attention is caught, wholly focused on the diaphanous figure standing before him. _Lee Jooheon_ , his mind prompts, unbidden, as it revels in a state of unrestrained, drunken glee. Changkyun barely registers the laughing whisper through his own breathlessness and the deafening rush of blood from his heart to his cotton-stuffed mind.

The concubine keeps his gaze ducked to the ground, dropping smoothly to his knees as he unhooks the swinging lantern and sets it down with an errant brush of his gossamer sleeves over its polished metal. Changkyun’s eyes lock, magnetized to the soft edge of a tilted jaw that glimmers with some kind inscrutable shine even under the dim candlelight. Jooheon hunches ever-so-slightly over the lamp, tending meticulously to the flame with the slight tips of his curled fingers, the dark red beads of his dangling earrings clinging possessively to his cheeks.

Changkyun’s drunkenness comes back to hit him at full force, yanking his mind into a spinning state of disarray from the swinging rhythm of a simple earring, and he can’t stop the audible groan of slight pain that escapes from his lips.

Jooheon’s fluttering gaze whips upright, his earrings chiming along with the rapid movement in a tone of light musical disapproval. The way he meets Changkyun’s own wide stare reminds the prince entirely too much of the innocent deer that had been pinned helplessly to the ground with a multitude of fletched arrows during his father’s various hunts. He opens his mouth, grasping at something to say, but his words remain locked within the deepest recesses of his stomach, trapped there by the sheer vulnerability in the unfathomable depths of Jooheon’s painted stare. He closes his mouth with a _clack_  and drops his gaze to the clenched shaking of his hands in his lap instead.

Surprisingly, it’s the concubine who voluntarily breaks the tense silence first, slipping across the floor in a silken crawl to kneel directly before the prince’s bowed figure. Changkyun looks up, startling from the sudden proximity between his face and Jooheon’s supple own. The concubine blinks, and Changkyun swears time slows down between the brush of each distinct lash against dusty pink cheeks. Like the first hint of dawn, his mind supplies, still filled to the brim with a blissful unawareness of its own drunken state.

Their gazes meet again, wavering but unbroken as Changkyun finally drinks in the sight presented before him. He loses himself in the pale color smeared across arched lids, bright vermillion blending so perfectly into a tawny brown, Changkyun finds himself wondering if it could just be the natural shade of Jooheon’s skin itself, instead of the work of any heavy makeup powders.

It’s rude to stare, even more to do so directly into someone’s eyes, but Changkyun’s inhibitions are swirling so far beyond his control, he keeps promising himself just a moment more of tracing over the slim edge of the concubine’s inked waterline, of admiring the long slope of his bared throat, of wanting to reach out and grasp the tips of those delicate fingers within his own.

He’s grown so drunkenly complacent in his reverent awe, he literally flinches backward the moment a silken palm comes to brush scarcely along his cheek. The soft hand hastily retracts from his sharp reaction, Jooheon looking up at him through shaking lashes as he gingerly murmurs, “my prince?” into the tremoring space between them.

“The _soju_ -” Changkyun blurts, his first instinct seeking out a scapegoat to pin his undignified action onto. “It-it’s made me too drunk.” He bites his flapping tongue, cursing the nervous stutter and uncharacteristic roughness in his voice.

“The drink does not intoxicate a man, for it is the man who willingly intoxicates himself with the drink.”

Jooheon’s murmured statement rings out firmly through the hushed candlelit room, and the both of them immediately stiffen at the unintentional retort with varying degrees of shock slapped across each of their respective faces, the concubine more so than the prince.

Jooheon’s eyes grow comically wide, dilating past their usual lidded, half-moon slits as a tiny squeak slips past plush, blossom-pink lips. “Please forgive me,” he whispers, dark head already dipping to the floor at Changkyun’s feet in a state of desperate prostration.

The surprise quickly seeps out of the prince’s system, but the aged proverb echoes repeatedly within his mind, knocking against a kind of childish wonder that had been locked away in a dusty chest ever since he had turned fifteen. He can’t help it, the next set of recited words that slide freely from his lips. It’s not a test per say, but he _is_ curious.

He begins the set of another proverb, catching Jooheon’s flustered stare as the concubine hesitantly rises from his bowed position. “Pleasure for one day…”

He trails off, remaining silent as he waits for the second part of the saying. A shallow furrow appears between Jooheon’s brows, the concubine caught in a moment of honest confusion at the prince’s enigmatic words before his mouth is dropping open in a silent ‘o’ of sudden realization. He shifts onto his knees, sitting fully upright and laying his hands calmly over sheer crimson silk as he recites the entire proverb with his chin held high, staring earnestly right into Changkyun’s wide gaze.

“Pleasure for one day, a bottle of drink.”

Without pause, another line is slipping out from Changkyun’s lips, his heart pounding erratically with some kind of irrational excitement from the concubine’s perfectly worded response.

“Pleasure for one year-”

“-a marriage.”

Jooheon finishes the phrase immediately, the same enthusiasm spreading across his face as his full cheeks bunch into a dimpled smile. Changkyun swears his heart skips a literal beat at the sight of such deep indents dipping so flawlessly into creamy skin, and he has to take a moment longer to think of the final line that completes the tercet.

“...Pleasure for a lifetime?”

“A garden,” the concubine supplies, practically bouncing in place as he answers, a genuine flush blooming across his delighted expression. Jooheon’s eyes were slender before, but like this, they’re almost swallowed up by the bunched fullness of his perky cheeks. Changkyun swallows down the indecipherable feeling in his throat and decides that he doesn’t mind the sight of it at all.

“Are you testing me, my prince?” the concubine chances to ask, his voice light and lilting as he tries and fails to suppress a short, tittering giggle.

Changkyun instantly snaps to attention, protesting with a stuttered “n-no!” as the unmistakable heat of a blush spreads across his burning face. “I just, I was surprised by the extent of how much you seemed to know - that’s all.”

Jooheon muffles another amused chuckle into his sleeve, the smile on his face growing achingly wider from the prince’s endearing awkwardness. Maybe, he thinks, watching the boy drunkenly fumble at nothing but empty air, he had nothing to be worried about after all. “We’re not royal concubines for nothing after all,” he replies teasingly after observing the prince’s adorable actions for a moment longer.

An incomprehensible murmur winds itself into the now relaxed atmosphere between them, and Jooheon leans closer, humming lightly as he motions for Changkyun to repeat himself. The prince freezes just slightly at the other’s inquisitive tone, pressing his lips together into a tight, nervous line before he finally summons up a steady enough voice to utter his request again. “Does that mean you’re also trained in the art of music as well?”

“Of course,” Jooheon states without missing a beat. He watches Changkyun’s slender face light up in pure delight, and he automatically utters his next casual thought aloud. “Would it please Your Highness for me to play something?”

Changkyun splutters at the sudden proposal, and he struggles to pick out the right words to comprehensively explain the situation without coming off as rude or blunt, of which he has been accused of being too many times in the past. “Yes - of course! But the only instrument I have available at the moment is a Chinese _guzheng_...which I don’t think has ever been part of the court’s musical repertoire before.”

Jooheon only cocks his head to the side in an easy tilt, gaze wandering upwards as he considers the prince’s reply with a puffy pout. “It is similar to the _gayageum_ , is it not?” he asks with a tone of plain curiosity.

Changkyun hesitates before murmuring lowly, “...it is.”

“And Your Highness knows how to play it well, does he not?” Jooheon peers up at the prince, his momentary pout already melting back into a dimpled grin.

“I do,” Changkyun admits, openly this time, fully aware of what’s to come and his heartbeat speeding up exponentially just at the thought of it.

“Then perhaps Your Highness could teach his eager subject to play a trivial little tune tonight?” The concubine raises himself onto his knees, meeting Changkyun’s eye as he sleekly slides his smooth palms around the prince’s clammy own.

Slowly, as he’s caught willingly in slivers of glimmering amusement, Changkyun comes to the realization he would wholeheartedly agree to anything Jooheon asked for.

He nods meekly, and with that, the night of his twentieth birthday truly commences.

 

-

 

Voices murmur, incomprehensible and hushed, prompting Changkyun to frown sleepily from within his cozy cocoon of downy blankets, deeming even a whisper at this time of night to be too loud for his drowsy state of mind. The creaking of a door joins the rustling symphony, and his annoyance grows tenfold, forcing him to shift onto his side and to roll right into - a bare chest.

Changkyun’s squeak of utter surprise is muffled as equally naked arms push his face right into the soft, warm curve of said chest. His face burns, completely aflame as his sleep-addled mind spins, attempting to comprehend just exactly what is happening in this twilight moment.

“... _hush_ ,” comes faintly from above, and Changkyun ducks up to meet Jooheon’s stare, glittering under the white moonlight with careful worry. The clumsy _clack_ of the door sounds again, and the snug grip around him tightens, pressing his nose directly into the curving dip between two sloping collarbones. Dried peony petals and fresh orange blossoms is the scent his delirious brain supplies as Changkyun draws in a long, stifled breath.

“The servants, they’re checking to see if - well, to see if we slept together,” Jooheon murmurs faintly, his breath dancing over Changkyun’s pounding forehead with the feigned intimacy of a lover’s kiss. A hand smooths delicately through his hair, massaging affectionately across the back of his head, and despite his burning mortification, Changkyun can already feel his eyelids begin to droop soothingly shut again.

A lulling reassurance comes, “Go back to sleep, my prince,” the whisper tenderly blending into the benevolent shadows as a dry kiss, followed by the soundless congratulation of _happy birthday,_ are pressed over Changkyun’s heated skin.

He glances upwards, imprinting the sight of Jooheon’s smile shining under the bare light of the moon into his mind with the last dredges of his consciousness before he finally allows his leaden eyelids to drop shut.

Changkyun sleeps, dreaming of nothing but clear, tinkling laughter. The sound of it trickles through his drowsy mind with the joyous gurgling of spring’s first unthawed river, holding the promise of dazzling life within its sweet, sparkling waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again the chapter title is a proverb + many proverbs in the chapter, all found in shady sites online. thank you so much for reading especially after such a long hiatus :''), please leave a comment and tell me what you think! any and all feedback is welcome!
> 
> Hit me up: [x](https://happycakestories.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	4. hearing of you a hundred times does not compare to a single fleeting glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The palace and its inhabitants, post-celebration, and all the consequences that come afterward - including some troubling matters of the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s summer i got my hat on backwards and i’m ready to finally update  
> All jokes aside i know it’s been 8 months-ish since the last chapter, but i just want to thank everyone who is still around for sticking with this fic after so long! Thank u guys genuinely i appreciate your interest in all my fragmented updates haha  
> No matter what and no matter how long it takes i swear i’ll never abandon this project bc it’s sincerely dear to me - so hopefully i can make progress this summer. Anyway thank u for reading!
> 
> words to know: baji - pants, chima - skirts, geumbak - traditional method of imprinting gold designs upon fabric, beoseon - socks, jeogori - upper garment of hanbok, guzheng - string instrument, to be played like a horizontal harp  
> jooheon's look: [*](http://hanfugallery.tumblr.com/post/175088093908/traditional-chinese-hanfu-by-%E6%9F%B3%E6%B1%80%E5%B1%85%E6%B1%89%E6%9C%8D)  
> 

When Changkyun awakes, it is to an empty bedside.

After a drowsy pause, he smooths his hand across the tangled sheets and finds only the barest hints of last night imprinted among the wrinkles. He closes his eyes, and the haze of heat, intimacy, and unreliable memories play in strange sunlit shades beneath them.

He feels nothing different - glancing down, he’s chilled and divested of a shirt perhaps - but his _baji_ is wholly intact, the strings still untouched from their intricate design, as perfect as they were the morning before.

Changkyun stirs, back creaking in tandem with the gilded frame of the bed. He looks to the rising sun climbing through the thin screen of his window and rubs at the stiff swelling beneath his cheeks. He blinks away an errant tear fleck and pulls limply at the knot of his _baji_ again. The strings flop, loosened, but only by the tossing and turning of his sleep

Bird call echoes past the hard foundations of stone and wood, and Changkyun falls back with a resounding _thump_.

The morning sun is suddenly too cold, the birdsong too harsh, so he curls up tight, fists lodged at the center of his chest, eyes clenched shut against the rest of the world. _So nothing has changed after all_.

Changkyun shields his hands over his face, knuckles digging into the ridge of his brow. There’s a restless itch beneath his skin, _in_ him, and he attempts to reach for it, pressing down until static light begins to flare across his darkened vision. The short bursts burn under his lids, dashing into his skull with the manic intent of an irritated wasp. The strange itch only grows, pounding in time with his pulse.

He finally releases his punishing hold, dragging his cheek over the pillow as he rolls to face the window. The buzzing flecks dissolve through the corners of his eyes, and by the time he blinks, the only flickers left in his vision are the ones cast by shadows of frozen dust motes.

The easterly sun rises, bright as ever, the sparrows croon on, drifting by on downy spring feathers, and Changkyun remains alone and untouched.

 

-

 

The servants attend to him today with added fanfare - trailing open glances across his bared chest, patting down the bed with surreptitious scrutiny, every one of them searching for an invisible sign of a night that never took place.

When the usual dressing procedure begins, Changkyun stills himself, breath caught as nimble fingers pause at the looped waistband of his _baji._ There’s a light tug, hesitation at the remnants of too sturdy handiwork, and Changkyun watches, waits, as the physical manifestation of fear ripples under his skin.

He’s expecting the worst possible scenario - one that begins with Shin Hui-bin’s narrowed, cold stare and ends with Jooheon’s fair head rolling glassy-eyed over cracked cobblestone - and yet, the pointed fingers soon withdraw, brushing only bare trails across his stomach, and Changkyun allows himself an audible exhale of relief.  

The rest of the dressing process continues as usual, pointed touches pushing him into slippery silks and fine ramie that spill, translucent, around his body under the thin sunlight. The last servant ties him together, silks, skin, and all with a binding sash, setting a gold _geumbak_ -print phoenix ablaze around his waist. With a bow, they file out just as they arrived, wordless, each step in time behind the other. If there’s more than one unspoken glass directed between them, Changkyun doesn’t notice it.

 

-

 

The daily bustle of morning tea and groggy complaints rises in its usual tremor through the tea house,  awakening with a yawn that swells from its very stone foundations.

For Minhyuk, the noise is muted under the muffled cotton filling his thoughts.

A numb warmth is soaking into his palms, a sensation that leaves his skin tingling with the slight edge of a burn. There’s a trail of condensation resting across the bow of his lip, the fresh steam bringing with it another bout of drowsiness, and the tea itself that soothes over the old aches from last night’s work. He recognizes it all, but only just so - the rest of the morning is only a low rumble, a push and pull as voices and faces fade in and out around him.

He massages a habitual spot along the curve of his thigh and minces down another sip of tea, eyes never leaving the latch of the doorway. The wooden entrance, however, remains firmly shut.

The noon sun hangs itself high, peering in through gilded windows, stroking over bared legs and strained silk with fingertips soaked in gold. Its lulling touch is met with aching groans of approval, and the tea parlor becomes an open display of pale flesh, loose skirts parted and robes shed without any pretense of shame.

Minhyuk pushes his own knee through the slit of his _chima_ , watching the exchange of light and shadow flicker beneath his wriggling toes. The warmth trickles through him, filling him up to the brim with a dull, seeping heat. For the first time that morning, Minhyuk’s lids lift themselves a final increment further, and the world finally begins to filter in around him.   

The cup in his hand has dampened with mist, and the condensation runs in rivulets through his fingers. He traces a nonsensical pattern across the milky china, filling minute ridges and valleys full with their own makeshift rivers and ponds.

As Minhyuk sculpts out his own watery landscape, the sly hush of gossip takes its usual seat around the main table. With sunlight coiled low in his belly and his little rivers disappearing fast beneath every stroke of a finger, Minhyuk finds himself edging closer and closer towards the whispers of the huddled circle.

 

_“...all the noise? Don’t tell me you didn’t hear it until at least the early traces of dawn?”_

 

Seokjin brushes a sleeve across his mouth, but all pretense of secrecy is lost from the fervid spark of interest in his stare. He surveys the table, eager for any kind of reaction or reply.

Mina jumps in first, the delicate spool of her hair unraveling over the edges of her collarbones as she digs her elbows into the table. “No way,” she accuses, squinting past the crown of sunlight atop Seokjin’s head. “As if a scrawny prince could possibly last that long on his first night. Besides-” she glares at the older man, unblinking, “we all know what _you_ were preoccupied with last night.”

Seokjin doesn’t even bother hiding the smirk that twists over his rosebud mouth. “What can I say,” he professes with a full-bodied sigh, “the men certainly wanted to be entertained, and as a lowly servant of the crown, what else could I do but offer up the utmost of my services?” He pauses, leaning forward and meeting Mina’s eyes with a lopsided smile. “But I guess you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you Min-ah?”

The younger concubine spits out something vicious, the retort lost to Minhyuk’s ears as the table lurches with a violent jolt. Every pair of eyes turns to her retreating back, save for Seokjin’s. He tips the cup back for another sip of his tea, lidded stare directed elsewhere in feigned indifference.

Jimin coughs, ever the awkward peacemaker, and pulls the conversation back with a tone of tentative interest. “I did hear that the prince was allowed a ...  _performance_ before they bedded.” At the hush of excitement that rises, he continues, eagerness overtaking uncertainty. “There were hours of music, drink, and dance - private, for him alone! - before they even consummated his manhood.” This time his words are met with open gasps, all eyes growing wide in scandalized delight. Chatter spreads, each whisper flitting from one parted mouth and landing on another.

“I’ve always suspected,” Seokjin crows, tracing the rim of his cup with the tip of a silk-bound finger, “that under his sullen puppy demeanor, there had to have been a hot-blooded wolf just waiting to be roused from its slumber.” Giggles erupt and he joins them, the idea of their gloomy crown prince unleashed in bed sending a pleasant flush across soft cheeks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Mina retorts from above the gaggle, the steam from a new cup of tea obscuring all but her flat stare.

“I’m sure _Jooheon_ does now,” Seokjin purrs back. Mina only glares for a moment more, before setting her cup down with a grimace and re-seating herself at the table.

And as if the wind’s own ear had been caught pressed against the doorway, rapturous and tantalized by every detail, the whispers of its breath trail in through wooden slats, trembling in time to the _hush-hush_ of approaching footsteps.  

“Oh-” Seokjin’s laughter cuts itself short at the next high hiccup, along with the rest of the clamor.

The silence whistles past every turned head, streaming by in audible pitch, until the door slides shut with a sharp crack against hard wood. The room becomes a collective audience, a gathering of unblinking stares trained on a single spectacle.

The sight of Jooheon is a spectacle indeed - a sign of a night well-spent, each piece of evidence emblazoned with purpose and pride over his skin. Without a doubt, Minhyuk can imagine the stark trail of bruises blooming under the haphazard sheen of silk, slipped on without the usual finesse of (his own) handiwork.

There’s a single pause where his eyes slide toward Jooheon’s own, crumbling with fine lines of black kohl, and something seizes up, still, tight, and breathless, within him. It’s the expression, a plea, that seems to be dripping out of the younger concubine’s stare, glistening and shining as obvious as rolling teardrops. Beyond the lethargy, the drowsiness, Minhyuk is struck by a sense of hopelessness, of despair so strong his bones ache with each heartbeat.

Then, the cycle of noise begins again, picking up right where it left off with another one of Seokjin’s careless greetings. Jooheon shuffles past sprawled limbs, mumbling indistinct replies for every eager, upturned face. At the turn of another doorway, he smears a knuckle across his lips, pulling the trail of red even further, and bows. With a final rustle of skirts and the dry hush of wood sliding open, closed, it is silent once more.

Minhyuk’s gaze has not left him the entire time, but he stays, coiled, numbed against the table, teacup still pressed wet within his grasp. For some unnameable, inscrutable reason, he can not bring himself to move.

 

-

 

If celebration is the metaphorical climax of a day’s events, then the aftermath must follow suitably with the disappointment of conclusions and most importantly - cleanup.

In the aftermath of the crown prince’s celebration, the palace depresses with a slow, winding exhale. Decorations are stripped, cut down, and scattered so far on the wind until, at last, shimmering gold is reduced to rot once more. As for the banquet, even the last servants left to pick at it find themselves throwing it all to the pigs before long. The prince’s gifts all face the same fate, stockpiled under the inevitable pile of dust and disregard - save for all but one.

Rumors rise more fervently, enduring more than their usual course of a few days, but eventually they fade away too, facing the same fate as the rest of the celebration. As quickly as the gossip had spread, buzzing through the entire court on a single breath, it took even less time for it to be forgotten completely - that is, excluding the few who truly took notice.

The crown prince himself resumes his nightly compositions with a fresh spread of parchment, a brush poised and dripping with ink, and a strange new plethora of compulsions and fixations ready at hand. He wonders, of course, what each ineffable thought could mean, if the impulse, the urge could be something deeper, something complex and completely permanent - if it could be an ingrained instinct, intrinsic, the very height of emotion finally awoken within him-

 

But what would he know? On the raw cusp of twenty years, he feels - and perhaps still is - no different from who he was during the span of the previous nineteen.

And yet, beyond the loneliness of his own heart and the confusion of another’s, the rush of spring’s first wind brings with it an unmistakable change.

 

-

 

In the ever-looming presence of the intangible promise of a throne and emperor-ship, Changkyun would’ve hoped that the closer he approached that inevitable reality, the more independence he would naturally gain.

However, stifled under the awning of his mentor’s study, he decides there is no such luck for him in this lifetime.

A lone cicada sends out an early cry, its chirrups rippling with a shallow echo across the pond’s drooping banks. Changkyun nods along with the silent dip of the grass-heads, mirroring the same forlorn state as the droning voice of his teacher falls into perfect harmonization with the strings of the cicada’s song.

Another buzzing hum rustles through the brush, and Changkyun’s nose droops an increment further towards his half-marked parchment.

“-and from this we must take away the crucial importance of Geunchogo’s actions for they set an early precedent of using alliances and diplomacy to garner peace and control while also introducing the method of strategic marriages to secure-” Kihyun pauses, eyeing the top of  Changkyun’s unusually still head. There is no sign of any awareness from his pupil, so Kihyun sighs, settling the spine of his book against the table with a none-too-gentle _thump_.

“So-” he asks, tone flat as the crown prince snaps upright with a clumsy arrangement of sharp elbows and rolling brushes, “would Your Highness be so kind as to relay what today’s lesson has taught him about the finer intricacies of war and overseas relations?”

“That I should marry my distant half-cousin for the good of the country,” Changkyun replies, frank even in his dizzied, half-asleep daze.

Kihyun exhales through his nose, breath pointed enough to pierce through the persistent drone of the afternoon cicada. “Marriage is a no doubt an important tool, but I hope that’s not the only thing you learned from this.”

“Marriage, war, diplomacy,” Changkyun lists, counting each word out with a lazy tap of his fingers, “it’s all the same, isn’t it? There’s no reason behind each one other than the security of the imperial line-”

“Of which you are part of, if I may remind you,” Kihyun huffs, his back tensed in a perfect parallel to the spine of his seat.

Changkyun only reposes further behind his desk and glowers as if to say _if only I wasn’t_. Some part of Kihyun, the irrational, irritated one worn down through years of high stress through the care of one spoiled prince decides it would very much like to bash his own head soundly into the table.

Instead, he drops his stare, conceding to the younger man’s sullen will and silently waves with a vague motion towards the door. The immediate _clack_ of a chair follows, and Changkyun strides out, a bundle of parchments gathered in a haphazard nest within his arms.

When the door finally slams shut, Kihyun runs his palms over his face, closing his eyes to bask in the companionable silence of the afternoon’s lone cicada. When (and if) the crown prince ascends to the throne - it is a day he can only pray for.  

 

-

 

“Ah, crown prince-”

Changkyun nearly rounds the corner into a very solid, very much taller figure, and he barely regains his footing as his parchments jolt, one after the other in ruffled protest against his sudden stop.

Shin Hui-bin smiles, the red of his lips glittering, kaleidoscopic, under the flash of sunlit spaces of the open walkway. Changkyun scowls and re-gathers the stack within his arms, already on edge from some kind of nervous, unspoken instinct.

“Walk with me?” Steps fall in easy time beside his own, and Changkyun continues down the pass with Hoseok at his side, decidedly silent the whole way. Somehow, even as the chatter of the growing evening rises - bustling voices, the busy rush bodies through each and every path - the distance between them is deafening.

His father’s consort only smiles his cold, pretty smiles, the sharp _fwip_ of his fan lashing through the air every so often as he brushes away flecks of fresh spring dust. Changkyun glances at him, the gaudy shade of the other’s robes always present at the edge of his eye, flickering in and out of his vision - just as off-putting as the presence of the man himself. The new season has barely ridden in on the tail-end of the last and yet, the back of his neck prickles with the distinct sensation that comes only with the irritating bite of summer heat.

With how the long their impromptu “stroll” has already lasted, it’s _unbearable_.

At the turn of another innumerable, identical corner Changkyun decides to let his mouth run with the errant tide of his thoughts. “So - I assume you didn’t really track me down just to walk.” He stops, leaning against the propped edge of a closed window. His parchments jump again within his grasp, but he stills them and faces Hoseok with a direct glare. “What do you want?”

The other man brushes by, weightless on a flutter of silk as he turns towards the balustrade instead, an effervescent outline cut against the curve of the glowing horizon. Nothing is said - Hoseok seemingly carefree as he traces the tip of a finger from beneath the sheath of his sleeve over dips and imperfections in the wood - but the sensation ticks at the bottom of Changkyun’s spine and he _knows_ \- something is most definitely amiss.

“In the aftermath of your celebration, it is my duty,” he pauses, nail scratching at a tiny splinter, “and of course out of my own volition, to oversee your well-being and your continued progression towards the throne.” Hoseok remains turned towards the evening sun, faceless in his calm admission, but Changkyun finds himself nodding along anyway.

“And you as well know just how rumors spread in the palace,” his hand knots the silk around it, tight enough to disturb the smooth expanse of the sleeve’s hem into a web of ugly wrinkles,  “as quick as _flies_.” The release of fabric is immediate, the moment as fleeting as the passing wind, but the silk remains crumpled, stained under his touch. The damage is already done.

Changkyun remains silent, still enough that he can’t even hear the breath he’s been holding.

“So, crown prince,” Hoseok finally turns, the lines of his smile wound too-tight at the corners, his eyes, two indecipherable black slits, “tell me about these rumors.”

Changkyun swallows, a sheen of cold sweat sweeping over him, and decides to bluff with every brash vein of courage (or stupidity) he possesses. “What rumors?”

It is the same movement again - an almost invisible moment, a twitch so slight it’s practically nonexistent - but it’s a break in his facade, a single cracked line in Hoseok’s otherwise perfect mask. The consort examines him, gaze flat, head tilted, and that uncanny, unmoving smile still plastered over his glistening, red lips. Whatever taunt that was currently taking shape within Changkyun’s mind immediately dies before it even reaches his throat.

“Do not attempt to play me, little prince.” An emotion glitters, dark and impulsive, over the sheen of his eyes, and Changkyun learns, that for all of Lee Hoseok’s sealed smiles and beautiful, infallible masks, rage has never been one of them.

The consort begins pacing, the delicate whispers of silk becoming rushed and fervent with every back and forth step. “Some say you truly passed the night properly as a man, even perhaps with more enthusiasm than expected - you know how my little birds like to chatter.” He pauses, throwing an emotionless smile at Changkyun. It strains, pulling itself into a grimace instead.

“But there are others who talk of nothing, that you failed your duty as crown prince, as a future emperor. So please-” he jerks to a stop, and Changkyun watches the sliver of the crack spread, watches the edges of his mask slip even further, “ _t_ _ell me_ what I should believe.”

“Have you fallen so low you’re this easily swayed by the chatter of servants?” The tremors in his voice ring out clear among the low drone of cicada whispers, but Changkyun steels himself and presses on. “We are not of the same blood, and I will never be your child - for I was the one born into the imperial line, the only descendant left to the throne - and nothing, not you, palace rumors, nor some rite of passage can change that.” He exhales, lungs depressing from the sudden onslaught of heavy words, and looks up to meet Hoseok’s stare, defiant in his resolve. “ _T_ _hat_ is what you should believe.”  

The consort’s eyes dip over him, swirling like pools of slick, rippling oil. They appraise his every movement, word, and mannerism as Changkyun stands, willing himself to harden into iron beneath the dangerous forge of Shin Hui-bin’s judgment. Still, he glares back, direct and forward, parchments tickling the edge of his chin, and holds his head up high.

And somehow, when it seems that the sun has sunk far below the edge of the palace walls, illuminating them in the soft calm of blood-red shadows, Hoseok finally deems his words believable. “Of course, you must be right.” He laughs, a light chime of a sound, and the mask rights itself without another twitch. “I suppose I must be letting my paranoia get to me.” He brushes his fan across his mouth and leaves Changkyun with only the delicate, indecipherable glimmer of his eyes. “I’ll be going then.”

The consort sweeps himself around the prince with an easy hush of skirts, the solid colors of his silks dampening into see-through shades that fade and blend into the rest of the horizon. As his figure passes under the mottled cover of nearby ginkgo trees, he becomes a simple blotch of shadow and disappears entirely.  

Changkyun watches and watches the outline of the consort sway into the distance until it’s impossible to see anything further. When there is only the static brush of leaves and the humming call of crickets left for company, he slides to the floor and closes his eyes. He can hear the scatter of parchments tumbling out of his arms, bumping past his legs, and unfurling across hewn stone, but he breathes in, out, and finds only a stream of pure relief, streaming, shaking through every length of exhausted bone and muscle.

He thinks of the fear he had felt, choking, drowning him from the top of his throat down, of the uncanny look on Shin Hui-bin’s face -

and yet he remembers - the glow of fading lamplight gleaming gold over bound silk strings, remembers the rounded fingertips, knuckles, curled, that danced, soft, over each one - and decides, undoubtedly, the risk was well worth it.

 

-

 

In the breath of the evening’s cloying breeze, Jooheon passes alongside a slow sunset as he traces a path towards his room. The open side of the walkway is cast in half-shadow, gray, bordering on a pale purple as it edges towards the orange of the sky.

The world seems to blend before him, and it all feels like a dream - even with his eyes open, he imagines them as closed, with only the ridges and valleys of the wood to guide his fingers, the clear line of bird call along his side, and the exhale of each step beneath him - he stops and breathes in, deep.

It’s peaceful here. In this moment, this place and time, between one sunset and another sunrise, Jooheon could forget.

Forget the strange veil of silence he’s strung across his lips, the soul-aching weight dropped straight inside his chest from nights ago, and the fear that sours with every passing day. Some days, some mornings, when he had looked to the rising sun and the sun glanced back over his tender body, he could not speak. There was the fear coiling up, suffocating, and in his most vulnerable moments, Jooheon had thought he could almost taste the fumes, the threat of death melding against his tongue.

He turns to the sunset now, the red hints of its outline whistling past his cheeks, and he swallows around the knot of the memory, forces down the staleness of its lingering taste - and he continues on his way, aging foundations creaking underfoot again.

The bustle of the tea room has fallen into a hush, interrupted only by the slight rustle of his entrance. What remains of its inhabitants and their dawn rituals has settled itself into dust, paralyzed within the cover of shadows. Jooheon should be on his way out as well  - like all the others, off to perform their nightly rites when the sun has sunk below sea and sky.

However, he turns towards his quarters instead, fingers rippling over the bodies of etched designs as he traces a familiar path. Even in the rising darkness, they all point him in one direction.

A single flicker of lamplight oozes through the hazy screen of his door, and it paints a deceptively beautiful imitation of warmth. Jooheon stops, bows his head, laces the silent veil before his lips - and enters.

“Jooheon.” Shin Hui-bin inclines his head, the slightest blink of acknowledgment, and the concubine bows until he is a mere fold against the floor. “I see my little birds have actually passed my message on through their meaningless chatter.”

“Of course,” Jooheon rises to a kneel, prompted by the flick of a wrist. He brushes his lips across the proffered hand, words a whisper over the marbled curve of skin and bone, “Your Majesty.”

Hoseok nods, silent, and retracts his hand, silk falling, hushed, to the tips of his fingers. Jooheon stands, an all too familiar ache pulling at his knees from nights longer, harsher than this one. There is an empty chair, carved open at the First Consort’s side, but Hoseok merely stares, the lamp’s flame rising like tides of oil across the flat, dark waters of his gaze.

Jooheon draws his eyes to the ground, laces his hands behind his back, and waits.

“Your living quarters are certainly,” Hoseok starts, voice piercing through the evening quiet with a jolt,

“-lavish,” he finishes, glance landing on the half-drawn curtains of the bed, embroidered blankets peeking through the rumpled slit. They shine, a glimmer of gold under the dim light.

It isn’t like the First Consort to make small talk - not at this time of the night. Jooheon tightens his fingers within their grip and does his best to cough up a reply. “I share it with another concubine. It suits the two of us well.” His eyes dance to the tips of Hoseok’s _beoseon_ , sharp and spotless, without a hint of skin on show. They shift with their owner, one ankle crossed over the other, and Jooheon’s gaze darts back to the edge of his own _chima_.

“Certainly-” Hoseok’s voice is liquid, melting with each smooth drip of wax under a slow flame. “Don’t tell me, on the night of the crown prince’s very _first_ , you left his bed in the same state?”

Jooheon scans the contents of the room from his bowed state - a cluttered table of open jars and errant pins and brushes, strewn about, unfolded garments, and chests eaten up from the inside with books, instruments, and crushed parchments. It’s lived in, to say the least.

He thinks back to that day, that night, beginning like so many of his nights - and yet, ending so differently. The prince was shy, mind blurred from the effect of drink, and he had looked at Jooheon through something of a flushed fog for most of their time together. When he had met the inevitable fate of drunken exhaustion, Jooheon had only tucked him into the nest of his blankets, long tangled before his own arrival. If he had left him with anything, it was in the most dignified state he could manage - certainly, the prince’s honor still remains intact.

Jooheon does not voice any of these thoughts out loud. “I did not want to wake him to simply tug and pull at the sheets.” He hesitates at the sound of his own voice, at the easy lie in his excuse - but in this moment, the fire flickering low and heaven’s light sinking beneath the horizon, it shall have to suffice.

“Surely, he would have been awake? After all,” the breath of laughter escapes the consort’s soft mouth, blowing the flame into a recoiling strand of shadow and the thinnest thread of red ember. Jooheon blinks, the world momentarily black, before it bounces back, full and flaring once more. “The young have never been able to control themselves in regards to the pleasures of flesh.” Hoseok finishes, a glint in his eye, reflected by the light of the renewed fire. The tone of his words, the gossamer film of his voice could be playful, even teasing, but Jooheon has witnessed many times the silent start of a violent summer storm. He knows the look within the consort’s stare, and the air around him seems to stir, cooling, as the heat of his own demise rises to a simmer inside him. He drops his stare, suddenly burned.

“The crown prince was drunk beyond his own control,” The fear boils over, and his throat catches, tight, around the words. Still, Jooheon finds a steady point, the bright white-yellow pulse within the center of the flame, clenches one hand around the other and continues. “As it was his first night, with so much drink, with all the festivities, I wanted to take care - to, to be careful with him.”

Hoseok brushes a knuckle against his mouth, unreadable behind a painted smile. “So,” he shields a sleeve around the lamp against a wandering draft, the fire spiking in dramatic shades and shadows across his cheeks, “you care for the little prince, do you now?”

Jooheon’s mind flickers and for one moment, everything within him goes a perfect blank. Soon enough, when Shin Hui-bin’s silk sleeve returns to his side and the meager light shines again, he can only utter a stuttered, “-Your Majesty?”

“Because-”, the consort begins, cutting through his surprise, an odd lilt to his words as Jooheon hears a terrible creak before him. Hoseok stands, and each step is an even beat, measuring the immediate distance between them. Soft, they shift like the scales of a snake across the sand, but Jooheon can only hear them as the crack of lightning, striking ever closer in the near distance.

He can’t blink, doesn’t breathe - he stares and stares and waits with the pounding rhythm of his heart flashing behind his eyes.

A hand finds itself beneath his chin, and Jooheon is fooled by the softness of its grip for a moment too long. The gentle press of a finger worms its way into the crook of his jaw, no doubt against his thrumming pulse, and Jooheon finally, unbidden, raises his gaze.

Shin Hui-bin’s eyes are a sky devoid of stars, darkened beyond even the farthest reaches of moonlight, deeper than the untold abyss of an everlasting sea. Staring into them, it is as if the fire of the room has been snuffed, gone without a trace of a breath. Jooheon, caught, can not look away.

“You of all people should know,” Hoseok whispers, the edge of his sleeve cutting a razor-thin line over unblemished skin. His shining mouth, close, too-close, drops the words tangibly above the concubine’s frozen own.

 

_“you are worth nothing to him."_

 

“If the palace is a wide, bountiful, blue sea, and he, its rightful monarch - then remember,” a nail catches above the slope of his jaw, digging, until Jooheon is sure his cheek will scar, “You are simply but a single pebble within an infinite sea of stones.”

“You are a glorified whore, nothing more, nothing less.” Hoseok is tender in his departure, even as poison drips from his lips. His fingers follow every indent, every curve, soothing over already fading marks in a loving play of reassurance. “Remember that and mind your place.”

He sweeps away, and the train of light silk, the coiling perfume of his breath, parts across Jooheon’s face with the lingering heat of a slap. The concubine bows, sinking to his aching knees once more and resists the urge to clutch at his untouched cheek.

 

Under this cloudless, gray night, he attends to no clients and stays, trembling, within the confines of a room lit by the paltry warmth of a sole, dying candle.

 

-

 

Through the peaks of blushing chrysanthemums, Changkyun passes his afternoon walk with a particular eye. Rustling silks blend into the murmur of a breeze, a hush of noise among the many new fragile spring blossoms.

The blur of color is a pleasant sight, and the light dances, filtering through gossamer fabric, flesh, and flower, all in the same translucent way. The prince stands among the bustle of wind and whispers, listening, waiting - but he does not find what he came to look for.

The shift of the sun’s glare eventually changes, dropping low along the horizon as the sheen of its rays settles, effervescent, across the land. In the moment of the sunset, the prince is to be found among a stray field of azaleas and foxtails. As the daylight passes, dies on the point of a hanging crescent moon, another part of the palace comes to life.

Finally, Changkyun picks it out - among the goose-necked stems, the trill of honeysuckle lips, through the flicker of evergreen bristles - a fox-eyed stare meets his own.

He waits this time too - as he did from the jut of the opposing pond-side under the heavy thrum of the noon sun, the bank rocking beneath his heels, as he did on the steps of rolling fog during an early dawn so many days ago, the mist woven, fine, across his lips. There’s nothing more than a blink in reply, a fan of eyelashes, dark, interwoven, among the waving foxtail reeds; sly, through the pink pulp of azalea petals.

Now, they slow under the first glimmer of moonlight, catching almost silver under the night. Changkyun looks, long, longer, longing - but he can’t read them. Each and every time, he remains lost.  

Like many past days, nights, afternoons, evenings, dawns, and dusks, he is again robbed of his sleep. Even in the deep twilight hours of his dreams, the meaning in those slitted eyes still evades him. He chases, foxtails rustling underfoot, the two of them painting a parallel trail through the brush, but the figure ahead moves with the moon - perpetual, ever-present, and forever out of reach.  

Like that, Changkyun awakens once more, reaching across the empty space of the bed, into his dreams, beyond the edge of that field, a gray eternity between land and sky - for something, _someone_ , for a hand that is not there.

 

-

 

In the dim light of the new day, Jooheon greets the queen of flowers.

The singular peony tree is in the throes of an early spring, and her branches are laden, dripping with heavy blossoms. The spare garden is a lonesome place, quiet, save for the clandestine hush of mist and his own thoughts.

He measures his steps among the sparse grounds, feeling for a way through indistinct shapes, structures, statues perhaps - it’s all hidden in gray. It’s still here, silent, but Jooheon finds his peace in the early morning blindness.

Far from the reach of tangled, enseamed sheets, veiled from the intent of dark stares, silencing the demands from cruel lips - he reaches for the fragile curve of a blossom’s cheek, cupping it to his mouth in a kiss of pollen and sweet perfume. The settling of his heart inside its cage is a gentle hint of the peace he’s missed, and he decides he likes it here, in this secluded garden, forgotten, abandoned without name, memory, nor meaning - to all but himself.

The dusting of dew on the peony is cool upon his lips, and a drop of it traces the curve of his jaw, his neck, wetting the collar of his _jeogori._ Jooheon presses a finger to his mouth, tasting it on his tongue, and the feeling of it leaves him _reverent_ , alive inside.

The whisper of another sigh, a second step in the close underbrush sends the flutter of his heartbeat bursting free. The erratic rustle of its feathers locks above and under the spaces in his chest, and Jooheon is more than _alive_.

The crown prince is a vision - rosy through the slits of a peony bud, hazy within the outline of mist, so much so that even the sharpness of his eyes seems to go soft. The concubine slips behind the tree, trunk entwined against his hip, and lets fall a shower of pink petals that unravels between them with a _crash_.

Like all the times before - on the crumbling step of a sweltering pond, through the fan of wild foxtails - Jooheon swallows his words. The silence between them, the distance before him, fills him with an unspeakable compulsion. It wells up, from the bottom of his stomach to the top of his throat, threatening to spill over into unspeakable words from his mouth. The scent of peonies swirls inside him, tangling itself between heart and mind. Its roots seem to grow from within, and a haze of pink and gray sprout into a dizzying blur across his eyes.

He peeks through the tangled veil, and somehow, the prince’s stare still finds his. The concubine presses ever closer, bark catching on silk and stitches, petals bruising against his body. His breath is caught, stolen away by the still wind, and the blades of grasses intertwine, heavy, over his feet, locking him in place.

Changkyun is framed by the cradle of peony blossoms, cheeks tinted pink, lips a thin red, like the line of the sun tracing the horizon. There’s a gentle edge to his jaw, an adoration by the queen of all flowers as she wraps the fabric of her touch around him.

In the calm of his eyes, through the steady gray of his stare, Jooheon finds a reflection of himself. A perfect mirror of the same raw impulse echoes back, shining, and the breathless want is all too apparent under the glitter of morning mist.

And yet, there is never enough for them - not of time, of words, nor of want. The concubine steps away first, urged on by the first stirrings of the day’s breeze at his heels. His goodbye is a susurrous sigh, a trailing of fingers through the curtain of blossoms, a single blink to cross the impossible reach between them.

 

The crown prince is alone, facing the veil of peonies and watching the emptiness of his dreams play out before him, inevitable once more. The flowers sway, an outline, transient, against the breeze as if to remind him someone else had been here once - with him.

 

-

 

On nights like these, cloudless, the moon an incandescent spot where his candle should be, Changkyun tires of his instruments.

Hyungwon’s gift stands upon its pedestal, strings stretched tight over its wooden frame. In a night of plain black and starch white, the bound silk shines as streams of pure light under Changkyun’s fingers. They pulse with sound, each note plucked with a tangible vibration rising through his skin.

After the echo of the last string, he stills. The instrument thrums long after its song ends, and Changkyun keeps his own silence, waiting.   

The slice of moonlight is an artist in its own right: magnificent as it preserves the interior of his room with the turn of one fine, porcelain eye; gentle as its cold touch, delicate, cups against his cheek. The music is pulled to its ultimate potential, fine-tuned from the hollows of a perfect voice. Everything is in its place, is as right as it always was, as it always _has been_ \- but Changkyun finds himself wanting.

The lone hum of the _guzheng_ by his hand, a fresh roll of parchment, blank before him, ready for the night’s composition, and now the added buzz of drink settled aflush within him - the scene is set. It could be perfect.

But Changkyun, on a night like this, is distracted. Tonight, he begins - brush scratching across the paper, fingertips dipped in ink, heart sick with yearning - all under the steady watch of the moon.

 

_if i could hear of you_

_it would not compare_

_to a single glimpse,_

_your cheek, effervescent_

_damp under the moonlight_

_we would not meet -_

_and simply part ways, unspoken_

_but hearing of you a hundred times does not compare to a single fleeting glance._

 

-

 

It is inevitable that they meet again - this time ducked under the lip of an umbrella, the habitual _drip-drop_ of rain speaking for the silence between them. There are only the ripples of a pond separating them, stretching so short over so close a distance and yet - they stand, stilled, as if waiting for each other at the very opposite edges of the continent.

It is a meeting in passing, and they soon go on, gazes sliding off of one another, slick from the rainwater.

Minhyuk is forced to watch, again, as Jooheon’s cheek turns, the line of his neck arching, following, before he pulls himself back, a sleeve sheathed across his mouth, dazed - just as he’s done so many times before. Behind them, Chaeyoung and Dahyun exchange a pair of damp glances and reposition their umbrellas under the steady downpour.

“Don’t tell me -” Minhyuk speaks up, his whisper intimate through the hush of the rain, “the prince was _that_ good on his first night?”

Jooheon’s sleeve drops, along with his mouth, and with all that’s happened, he still somehow musters up a look of shock, scandalized. “What,” he edges closer, Dahyun struggling from behind to cover his coiffed hair, “what exactly are you talking about?”

Minhyuk shrugs, leaning closer as well. In the space between them, they practically share the same breath, and the two servant girls knock their respective umbrellas together in a moment of confusion.

“You still haven’t told me anything,” Minhyuk mentions, halting their walk to send an upwards glance to the sky. The clouds, gray and full, hold no answers, not unlike the quiet storm beside him. He presses on anyway - the force of nature has never stopped the will of the heart, especially not his own.  “About that night.” He keeps his eyes to the sky, pulls Jooheon warm against his side, and asks, “What happened?”

There is, by serendipitous chance, a low awning ahead. This time, it is the younger concubine who takes him by the arm, tangling them together with a playful pretense, a high giggle spilling into the chime of rain. The two girls are waved off in a flurry of silk, left to fend for themselves against the rain in the face of a concubine’s fickle whims.

(Dahyun looks to Chaeyoung, their afternoon stuck here under the edge of a pavilion, and raises her umbrella over their heads with a small smile. Chaeyoung drops her own, and they spread their skirts over the wet steps, waiting together for the sun’s return).

Within, Jooheon pulls Minhyuk further, past the pavilion, into an open hall where the crickets sing from the pondside and the fish gasp against the surface. Here, where it is empty of all ears but their own, the answer finally drags itself free from him with a choke, a gasp.

 

“Nothing. Nothing at all happened that night.”

 

Somehow, the downpour transforms into a storm, and lightning threads, jagged, into the cracks of the sky. As the fish swarm within the pond, Minhyuk finds his dull-eyed stare reflected inside their gaping own. Rain has begun to sweep in on stinging flecks, needles piercing through silk to reach straight into skin and bone. “What,” he breathes, devastation only a murmur within the clamor of the storm, “what do you mean?”

“I mean _nothing_ ,” Jooheon confesses, lips slick as dew flecks dot each word. His hands are soaked against the balustrade, each finger outlined under his sleeve, the fabric molding to every rise and fall. They’re too thin, too pale, and with each crack of lightning, they grip on harder. To Minhyuk, he’s clinging on, desperate - even as the thunder drums, the inevitable drawing ever closer.

Minhyuk wants to pull him aside, pull his short, small fingertips loose from the unforgiving stone and fold them around his own, fit the long knobs of his joints, soft, inside the space of the younger’s palm, trace their washed-away steps through the rain, and leave their wet silks aside for the steam of a hot bath. He wants to soothe him, a promise of _hush_ as they forget it all - but the storm rages on outside, and so does the one from within.

“Are you an _idiot_?” Lightning slams into thunder with a roar, and the vague trace of pain lights up Jooheon’s face with a flash. Minhyuk swallows, hurting, and yet he continues. “It is our life’s duty to do this,” he lashes a hand in the direction of his own body, silk pressed translucent over skin, “to sell ourselves for the crown, to be whores for the capital-”

The rain crashes against the pond, a sudden tear in the heavens above, and the younger concubine curls away from the awning’s edge. His cheeks are stripped bare, scraped raw and pale from the downpour. Rouge runs, mixing darker with the black of his eyes, and Minhyuk thinks of how delicate those lips had fluttered under the brush of his finger, lashes whispering under the line of thin kohl - how Jooheon had closed his eyes and trusted him with his vulnerability without fail.

“ _I couldn’t_ ,” the whisper comes, broken before him as the storm settles into the beat of a shower again. Jooheon shivers, a blank haze over his eyes, and he hugs himself through the wet silk. “If you had seen him, the look on his face -” his fingers dig, white, through the sopping layer of second skin, “- he was practically still a boy, a - a child-”

He turns away, hair streaking across his forehead. Water runs down the planes of his face, lacing the crease of his brow, pooling in the bow of his lips. Minhyuk’s heart aches - it looks like he’s crying.

“I couldn’t do it,” Jooheon repeats, something leaving him with every word as he slides against a post. “How could I have ever tried to touch him, to ruin him like that-”

 _to ruin him like we were_ echoes, a too loud reverberation in the pitter-patter around them.

“Those men,” Jooheon spits, body heaving, hands clawed into wood, “they may use me, use us, like toys, as Shin Hui-bin’s little dolls, but I will never turn him into one of _them_.”

Minhyuk stares, unmoving. To reach the distance between them, to scoop Jooheon up, arms intertwining around his waist, to silence the raw ache in his voice - it would only take the space of a few steps. But he meets the other’s stare, traces the drops rolling past glistening cheeks, damp with dark, shining rivers, and waits for the storm to finally clear.

“There’s something good about him,” Jooheon sags to the ground, a desolate heap of drenched silk, drowning under the rain. He looks up, and Minhyuk would never want this, want Jooheon on his knees, want him _begging_ \- “Don’t make me, please, don’t make me ruin it.”

Minhyuk lurches, forward, falling, spilling into motion. His mouth, despite the rain, is dry, his throat croaking and hoarse - the words, soundless, are driven from his frozen lips anyway.

“ _never_.”

And so, finally, the storm clears, and the dam of frantic warmth within him breaks free. Sunshine pours out, dripping through gray as the pond stills. Jooheon is so, so cold, and Minhyuk can only feel the slightest touch as they press together, one tangled mess on the ground. Silk sticks, unforgiving, but beneath it they are skin to skin, trembling breath over wet cheek, hair clinging against murmuring lips.

If the palanquin that arrives for them sags under the weight of two, Jooheon stuck, sopping, at his side, the servant girls don’t mention it, still hiding from the light shower under their shared umbrella. (the other one,  suspiciously lost in the storm)

When Jooheon’s eyes close, Minhyuk takes numbed fingers within his own, and makes a promise, interlacing it, tight, without a single space between them.

 

Long after, when the dead of the night has passed, and two are curled together as one, Minhyuk makes good on his promise.

“ _I_  ' _l_ _l keep you safe_.” He tucks a strand of hair over the younger’s brow, smooths away the wrinkle of a small frown with the press of a thumb.

The stars are blinking, listening to the lone trails of owl song, and Jooheon breathes, steady, silent, hushed - in and out - right next to him.

 

-

 

On an afternoon heated by the currents of a faraway summer sea, Changkyun sets out on a walk, restless.

It’s in the air - the heightened trill of swallows returning from the long winter, the fish, suddenly teeming within the ponds. Even the dust is alight, turning pale-gold with some kind of renewed life.

Really, he’s most captured by the blossoms.

With his studies half-finished for the day, he finds himself winding through a garden path, interspersed with the colors of new experimental blooms. At the turn of the year, the royal gardeners were allowed an expanded plot along the eastern wall, and Changkyun wanders through the vibrant mess they’ve happily set free.

Through the cobblestone, life pushes up, adamant, in all its variations of shapes and sizes.  Orchids, white ones, are the first ones to greet him at the mouth of the trail. Their yellow lips, pursed open in song, tremble with the wind. Changkyun reaches towards the nearest one, and it folds its head against his palm, anticipatory.

 _Status,_ he recalls. The noble curve of its three petals, the price of its everlasting beauty has made it the perfect candidate for the king’s fragrance. Changkyun spots more and more of these within the palace every day, even the occasional stalk at the head of his own bedside table.

Too soon does the sigh from the rest of the garden urge him on, a collective hush from up ahead. The head orchid bobs in his hold, and the shadow of a cloud mars its white complexion. _Impossible love_ \- the dual meaning of the flower comes to mind. Too perfect to ever attain or possess. Changkyun steps back, releasing the blossom, irrationally shaken.

He passes the illegible faces of rock sculptures, steadied by their plain foundations, and continues further down the path. This time, there is a crown of chrysanthemums, fluffed out in full bloom. Their lions’ manes shake at him, each one ruffling the next in turn, and Changkyun cups one, its petals filling out, a perfect halo, between both hands.

Its perfume is a strong invasion of the senses, and he sniffles, mimicking the flowers’ shudders as he attempts to clear his head. The one in his hold reflects back a deep gold sheen, deeper even under the direct sunlight. Its companions - harem perhaps, muses Changkyun - are a smattering of other shades, bright and direct. Gold, however, has always been the chosen color of the crown.

 _Longevity_ , _fidelity,_ and _devotion_ are all the traits of a successful empire. Too bad, _perfection_ has also never been his most admirable trait as a crown prince. The evening sun flares, a single spot among the trees, and the little lion roars, its petals opening and closing as if in demand - _wear_ **_me_ ** _upon your brow_.  

Changkyun releases it, returning the flower to its clamoring pack. They crowd around it, swallowing their king whole in adoration, until only the peak of a single golden petal shows through. He watches the huddled mass for a moment longer, imagining his own head upon that thin bitter stalk. It’s too vivid an image, and Changkyun passes it by with an instinctive shudder.

Beyond the flowers, there is the clearing, framed by trees and a moss-ridden pond at its middle. Over its stagnant surface, bows the trailing hairs of a young willow tree.

And beneath it, stands the silhouette of a very familiar figure.

The silk he wears today is the most translucent draping of pink; a long, flowing layer that is meant to show everything and hide nothing. The tail of it flutters, the wind tugging at Jooheon to turn, and Changkyun knows divine providence must be at work.

Fate has lined up his metaphorical stars, cleared the literal clouds, and light reaches through a perfect circle inside the clearing. Changkyun strides forward, emboldened by chance and the soft clicking of jewels, dangling in strings among the concubine’s decorative combs. The sound grows, swelling like a song through the whisper of wind above the grass.  

Blossoms not yet full, pink buds too shy to bloom turn to meet him on his way - and he is suddenly, at once, too close. The borders of the garden stand tall and proud, branches knitting tails of winding shadow overhead. They fade like ink, running through the cracks of stone greenery. There is nothing, no one here - but them.

In the sole company of the wind and the one he wants, Changkyun loses his breath.

Once again, it is the concubine who speaks first. “Look, my prince,” he comes forward, pink high on his cheeks as his painted eyes glitter. There is a tug at the corner of Changkyun’s sleeve, the hint of fingertips from underneath Jooheon’s delicate own, and he’s being directed to look at the willow. Following the trail of a single finger, high in the brushing leaves of the tree, comes a distressed chirp from up above.

One imploring look is enough - spring’s first sparrow has already gotten itself caught. “I’ve tried to knock it out - gently of course,” Jooheon murmurs, and Changkyun watches, listens as silk rustles on skin and the bare length of the other’s arms are revealed before him. Silt and the gray dust of stone decorate them, fine bits even clinging on to the threads of his robe. To Changkyun, rough as they are, they remind him of stars - of brilliant silver thread embroidered into the fabric of flesh.

The outer robe pools to the crooks of Jooheon’s elbows, dragging loose from his shoulders as he cradles another stone in his palm. They both wince at the sound of it in the distant underbrush, nowhere near enough to knock the sparrow free. Its crash is certainly enough to send the animal into another fit of spasms however, and a sporadic shower of long leaves begins to rain from above.

Jooheon huffs, rolling at his sleeves with decidedly less grace. “Poor thing,” he declares, and Changkyun can only nod, watching the smooth line of muscle flex along bare wrists.

If it is the same thing that possesses his mouth to interrupt during Kihyun’s lessons, then he curses it now for speaking his thoughts aloud. “I’ll hold you up.”

Eyes wide, the slight part of lips, and the concubine’s attention is turned fully on him. “My prince?” he asks, a shaky laugh in his question.

“The willow tree,” Changkyun points to the apex of the mop of branches and leaves, “it’s not too tall.” A desperate chirrup sounds from within. “You could reach it perhaps, if I boosted you up.”

A slow deliberation takes over the concubine’s features, gaze flickering between the ground and the top of the willow. His lips move, silent, pursing open and closed, and Changkyun is, admittedly, distracted. Finally, as the wind sweeps through, Jooheon tucks a stray trail of pearls behind his ear, and mumbles, “Then - if you wouldn’t mind doing so, my prince.”

He concedes, a dusting of pink light across his face. For the first time, prince kneels before concubine, and they both look away, eyes darting immediately from the other. Changkyun locks his stare firmly on a stalk of grass, and Jooheon’s sight burns from the expanse of greenery above head. He can feel the press of the younger man’s fingers, fitted to the curve of his waist, the steadiness of his chest and shoulder resting against his own leg.

Changkyun shakes as a palm slides over his back, grazing so close to his neck. When Jooheon’s knee finds itself upon his shoulder, warmth curls against his bare cheek. Silk, the same as his own robes and yet somehow impossibly softer, slides past his skin, muffling his mouth. With the concubine’s thigh pressed to his lips, the scent of crushed peonies staining his collar, Changkyun pushes skyward.

 

It is a wonder the sparrow got itself stuck in the tree in the first place. Jooheon certainly does not understand, and reaches forward, pushing through the easy tangle of loose leaves to free it. The poor thing hops along a branch for a few moments, head turning this way and that. Its eyes dart up and down the length of their haphazard human tower, almost too curious to fly away on instinct.

Mistaken, Jooheon reaches forward, the curve of a finger outstretched - and he jerks back immediately. The sparrow dashes upward on an explosive burst of downy feathers, slim leaves shredded in its wake. Changkyun sways, half-blinded by silk, and the two of them tumble to the paved earth - inevitably, one on top of the other.

Jooheon is a firm weight against him, and Changkyun is breathless from it. A close gasp brushes the underside of his jaw, and he finds his own hand still tangled, under layers of silk, in the soft crook of the other’s waist. There’s a thigh, sliding, too hot over his, and beneath it all, the knocking of a heartbeat in time to his own.

A drop of sweat trickles, tangible, past his collar, and Changkyun looks to the glare of the sun, high above them. The feeling of Jooheon on him, against him, between him, is that of a lazy dew of sweat, a single drop of rain before the summer monsoon - the indecipherable calm before an impending storm.

It passes by, just as quick as the escape of the little sparrow. An audience has arrived, and they watch with sly stares, muffling purposeful laughter behind their sleeves. Jooheon, inextricably guilty, is on his feet without a word. The concubines titter and ruffle their own bright feathers before pulling him away into their colorful crowd. The pale-pink of his robes is quickly swallowed by a cloud of silks, his trail disappearing beyond reach.

They leave, floating away, flashing him a few last indecipherable glances - and Changkyun is left to lay there, considering, over and over again, the heat of Jooheon’s body, the warmth that still feels flush against his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and last line of changkyun’s poem is a proverb i found somewhere online - otherwise the rest of the poem is original content. Thank u for reading and if u feel up to it please tell me what you thought! Any and all feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> hmu:  
> twitter: [*](https://twitter.com/happycakeycake)  
> tumblr: [^](https://happycakestories.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	5. south of the river, we gather lotus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _south of the river, we gather lotus. the lotus leaves are round, how round! and the fishes gather to play among the leaves._  
>  Summer’s storm brews heavy on the horizon, and with it comes a chance to meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update within two months wow! I want to say good job me ahah - better than 8 months for sure. The theme of this chapter is hope - let’s hope for quicker updates lol  
> Thank you all for the support and your continued readership! Thank you for reading and please enjoy this chapter!  
> Words to know: soju - alcohol, jeogori - upper garment of a hanbok, guzheng - string instrument, to be played like a horizontal harp, beoseon - socks  
> We’re gonna switch it up this time - this is what i imagine hyungkyun to be wearing: [*](https://78.media.tumblr.com/946a366fbdd572bcfdb4d18d68f52571/tumblr_on9ne11NOi1uokewpo1_1280.jpg)  
> 

The full brunt of summer’s heat is but one storm away, and Changkyun can already feel the dread of the first drop, heavy under his skin.

Sweat trails along his brow, dripping down the crease of his eye like a tear. When he wipes a hand across his skin, it smears, leaving a watery sheen that falls in a veil before his vision.

It distorts the air, making it swell and blur with the shimmer of a faraway fire. Changkyun blinks, salt stinging with every movement, and scans between the lines of cracked branches for a flame. As it stands, only the eye of the sun peeks through to greet him from above.

He squints and shakes his head, attempting to clear away the minute distortions. Sweat now runs freely down his cheeks, tracing a rigid line from his chin into the dip of his throat. Changkyun shifts, restless from the itch of heat, and reaches for another arrow from the quiver stand.

He notches it, the fletching re-opening the same red line of irritation from days past, and pulls the string past his cheek. The entire bow quivers, taut and ready. He aims, waits - and shoots.

 _fwip_! It’s another missed shot. A score of zero out of ten so far.

Changkyun groans, an exclamation loud enough for his impromptu audience to hear. He slouches and digs the tip of his bow into the ground, forcing it to bend even further. The wood creaks in warning, but the prince takes the moment to revel in the sensation of relief uncoiling up the length of his back.

A low murmur arises, an undercurrent to the rustling of the wind through the leaves, and he straightens with grudging respect. Shin Hui-bin watches him, a perpetual pair of eyes at his back. The consort nods, neither approving nor encouraging, and Changkyun schools away a grimace. Dark eyes only blink, dappled under the cover of branches and their shifting shadows - blank, without judgment.

His father is once again at his side, heavy steps through the grass, a heavy hand on his shoulder. Clammy with sweat, his touch seems to burn through Changkyun’s robes and sear into the skin below.

He stares at the arch of his bow, traces the worn fletching of the fallen arrow, scans along the red lines striped across his arms. Still, he can’t bring himself to look his father in the eye.

“Let’s try again, hm?” The words rumble, reassuring and quiet, meant only for his down-turned ears. Changkyun nods, mumbling a half-assent. He breathes out a tentative exhale of hope, untwisting the tense knot of his heart.

“Why don’t we try something else?” The suggestion cuts through his relief with abrupt pause, carried forward by the sudden shift of the wind. Son and father both turn, one unwittingly, and meet the gaze of the First Consort and his gaggle of concubines.

Well, Changkyun thinks, coming from _him_ , it becomes less of suggestion and more of a sweet demand.

His father acquiesces, slipping away before Changkyun can even voice his protest. The heavy hand on his shoulder finds a different rest, cupped instead under the delicate hold of his consort. Hyunwoo greets Hoseok with two smiles - one adorns his cheek, the other placed like a ring across the crown of his knuckles.

The consort doesn’t bother hiding his pleasure and pulls the emperor down for a kiss. Soft laughter erupts in a wave around them.

The prince looks on, the space at his side cold and silent within the summer air. The wind travels across his back, a momentary embrace of warmth, but it unravels its arms and eventually -  it leaves him too.

As the kiss ends, Changkyun meets the consort’s eye from over his father’s shoulder. An ugly feeling surges through him watching the painted smile stretch across pretty lips. A shudder seizes him to the top of his throat. Hyunwoo turns, and he swallows it down, a simmering rage that is forced again to the bottom of his stomach. He returns his father’s gaze with an easy nod.

“Clearly, the prince is having some difficulties.” Many heads bob in agreement, the jewels of heavy headpieces clicking in synchronized applause. It sounds like miniature laughter to Changkyun’s ears. “I’m sure he will be able to excel at this exercise - after all,” Hoseok turns to the man at his side, a gentle grip on his arm, “he was trained by the best.” Hyunwoo smiles in quiet assent and waits for him to continue.

“However, it seems repetition at this point will do him - and us - no good.” Changkyun digs the curve of the bow into his palm. The tension of the wood hums, threatening to snap, but his fingers are locked, shifting harder, tighter around the body with every breath. Perhaps, if the bow broke now, it would be for the best.

“An expert example would be an excellent break. A correct demonstration of how it should be done - for both him and the audience,” Hoseok hums, gesturing with a palm to all the watchful eyes before them.

So that’s his game. The crown prince to be shamed before the royal court for his own incompetence. Even if his father were to say no - which is to say, he wouldn’t - there are too many here, waiting, watching, and judging. There are deceitful appearances to keep up, fake masks to wear, so Changkyun steps back, fingers aching as he finally throws aside the longbow.

A young soldier steps into the line of the target, summoned with a flick of two fingers. Titters accompany his appearance, admiring the handsome line of his jaw, cooing over his wide eyes. Now, those brown eyes flicker over Changkyun, and the prince jerks his own away - but it’s too late. It was pity he saw within that stare.

Unlike Changkyun’s rounds, there is a perpetual whisper that starts up the moment the guard takes the bow. It continues, swelling like a wave, humming in the background, until it reaches a fever pitch. At the height of the shot, the sound breaks and scatters into the crowd with thunderous applause.

The young soldier stands back, unfazed by the impact of his own arrow. He sets the bow before the audience, bowing at the waist, and returns to his place.

In the straw target, sits an arrow pierced straight through to the center. Changkyun stares, unblinking, the image of feathers streaking past him without hesitation, the bow a perfect recoil of motion - the keen bullseye and the sound of adoration received afterward. It plays without pause through his mind.

Perhaps, that’s what hauls him to his feet, forces him to fit the bow to his palms, and curl his aching fingers around it again. But then, there’s something more - a pair of eyes hidden in the crowd.

Through the haze of sunlight, Jooheon’s stare is trained on him. The afternoon shade is rendered in half-shadow; one part caught under a canopy of leaves, the other half fallen upon the concubine’s lashes, bleeding gold into his eyes. Even the surrounding dust and air is sparked alight around him.

Changkyun pauses, searching for a feeling, an emotion, for any kind of meaning within that stare. He waits, stilled, breathless, and dares to hope for something more.

There are no words to be exchanged, but when he turns, bow in hand, the path of the target is clear before him.

He is not thinking when he pulls the bow back. The arrow fits itself to the bowstring, a solid line, straight against his cheek. When the fletching flies away, hissing through the air - it only occurs to Changkyun now, the world paused in a blur of motion before him, what he had wanted all along. Those brown eyes, wide in amazement, focused on him alone.

He blinks, lowering his arms, and finds the arrow again - right in the center of a bull’s eye.

It is Jooheon who raises his hands in soft applause. Surprise has shocked the crowd silly, but soon enough, every pair of hands joins him and the sound of a single clap is lost within the echoing boom of many.

Like a shower of summer rain, a season when all storms start slow and end heavy, Changkyun is drenched, drunk on the sensation.

When all is said and done - his bow cast to the side, decidedly done for the day - he searches through the crowd again. Behind another dark head, Jooheon turns to him. Under the flickering shades of hanging branches, admiration is clear within his eyes. Changkyun looks back, stares, and loses himself to the moment.

Then - as if time was only an afterthought - the older boy smiles, as easy as the dip of a finger through pale cream. Deep impressions of happiness line his cheeks.

Changkyun mirrors the same smile, shy, a flash of his own small dimples on show.

They part ways, hearts racing and yet somehow content, cheeks aching with the satisfaction of having seen each other once more.

 

“Do you think…,” Hyunwoo murmurs, a trace of amusement in his voice. He watches his son leave with a blatant smile on his face. Even as he trudges across the field, it never fades, only growing until the curve of his cheeks pushes into his eyes.

Hoseok examines his own group of concubines, eyes flitting from head to head. He lands on one, paused as if looking elsewhere, before the figure turns away and continues forward. “Perhaps,” he comments. There’s nothing more to say - after all, it’s only conjecture, a suspicion of sorts.

The emperor glances down at his consort, contemplative. He offers the crook of his arm, a silent comfort, a place forever at his side.

Hoseok accepts it, wordless, automatic, and fits himself to Hyunwoo’s side.

 

-

 

“Oh young master of archery, do tell~” Hyungwon flicks a finger against Changkyun’s still-moving brush. The ink dripping from the bristles falters and smears the stroke of the character into an ugly dot.

Changkyun sighs, waits for the slow drag of two _very_ long breaths, and eventually -  reaches for another roll of parchment.

“~Do tell of your skillful achievement,” his cousin crows, laying across the table in a lazy sprawl. Thoroughly ignored, he rolls over and begins tracing his own empty poem into the open air.

A night cicada shrieks in the distance, lonely until it is followed by the echo of numerous others. A slight draft threads through the lamplight, making the shadows flicker, if only for a moment.

In their little room, a single orb lit up within the darkness, Hyungwon and Changkyun keep each other company. From the background, the palace’s perpetual night-life provides them with a bustling orchestra.  

Changkyun attention is lavished upon his work, work that he never pauses to allow anyone to see. Hyungwon, however, does not have the same artistic conviction. When the strokes of characters scrolling past his eyes dissipate, their meanings long-lost to him, he turns to more immediate thoughts.

A public viewing of royal training sessions - of course, it’s just servant chatter. He knows his cousin has always taken to the finer areas of exercise. Archery suits him in a way that prince-hood never has.  

But the night of his “first” - there’s something more to be said (and to know) about that rumor. Hyungwon likes to think he’s different from the all the other gossip-mongers: he’s happy to ask for the truth from the man himself.

“So, the night of your twentieth birthday,” he speaks up without a trace of tact or subtlety, “did you sleep with the concubine or not?”

 _Silence_. Changkyun’s brush halts upon the paper, frozen until the dot of black bleeds through to the other side. He whisks the ruined scroll away, brush handle clinking against its bowl - but it’s too late. A slight stain of ink is already pooled across the table.

The younger boy scrubs at it with furious intent, soiling his already smeared hands without care. The dark wood of his table masks most of the color, but Changkyun’s efforts, in the end, are fruitless.

The small flame within their shared lamp jumps, and he feels his own patience wear thin at the same erratic pace. Beyond the ruined pile of papers, the countless spots of spilled ink, and his own lost compositions discarded among them, Hyungwon is suddenly poking at a very touchy subject.

And, to his cousin, to his dear and maybe-only-friend, Changkyun is suddenly overcome by too much exhaustion to lie to. Perhaps it’s the cover of night, the illusion of guarded secrecy, but suddenly - the words just fall from his mouth.

_Perhaps, he wants to trust - just this once._

“No. I didn’t.” Hyungwon’s eyes bulge, and Changkyun would laugh otherwise. He can’t muster up the same emotion at the moment.

The older boy motions with open hands, searching for some kind of inexplicable reaction, mouth tight in wordless surprise. Changkyun waits it out as a strange sense of glee possesses him.

Finally, Hyungwon bursts. “ _Y_ _ou what_?!”

Changkyun shrugs, reaching for the handle of another brush. “I didn’t do anything.”

Hyungwon stares, struck into silence again. Changkyun tilts the brush between his fingers and stares back.

His cousin sets his forehead against the table with a soft exhale. The tick of crickets marks the silence, followed by the occasional rustle of a new roll of parchment. A whisper emerges, long after Changkyun has lifted his bristles from the final detail: “ _I don’t know why I asked_.”

Changkyun rolls his eyes, fully aware that Hyungwon’s face is still planted firmly downwards. There are severe consequences, too many to comprehend, in revealing such a secret - but he shrugs again, simply satisfied at the sensation of lightness upon his shoulders. Looking at Hyungwon’s prone form, he thinks, for once, this might be something he won’t regret.

In an eternity’s time, his cousin raises his head and squints at him through the haze of the lamplight. Changkyun snorts at the red indent sitting squarely above his brows.

”Shut up,” Hyungwon mutters and proceeds to slap his arm with perfect efficiency. Changkyun laughs right into his disgruntled expression.

Hyungwon’s frown loosens as he watches the prince’s growing smile shake his entire body. It’s been too long since they’ve played like this, since he’s seen Changkyun act his age. The sight of it forces a familiar feeling through him, ticklish, like an insect trapped under his skin. An invisible crown seems to topple from the other boy’s head, and with that, it releases the pleasant itch in Hyungwon’s throat as well.  

The minute flame is blown back and forth by their disjointed breaths, huffing as it fights an uphill battle. The two cousins settle their soundless giggles, both sprawled across from one another in boneless fits of laughter. It takes a few moments more, the reverberation of an owl’s hoot, the sigh of a passing breeze, before they can sit up again. The lamp’s light dims to a steady glow.

“-So,” Hyungwon prompts, clearing his throat, “why not?” He props his cheek against his palm and waits, demand clear within his question.

Changkyun goes quiet. He’s still facing Hyungwon, but the sudden mist over his eyes says he’s gone somewhere far away. The firelight flickers across his cheeks, his vision, as if reflecting a passing memory - he blinks, once, twice, and then back to awareness.

“I’m - not sure.” He looks at Hyungwon, meeting his gaze, if only for one moment before he ducks away. “I don’t think he wanted to either.”

“ _He_?” Hyungwon poses another question. This time it’s one of intrigue and interest.

Changkyun glances at the door, then the window. Only the moon glimmers back in steady response. “His name is Jooheon.”

“And so?” The other boy prompts, matter-of-fact. “Was it because of you-” he waves, motioning at Changkyun’s general presence, “and your, your inexperience?” he finishes, reaching for the right words.

Embarrassment floods the young prince, and images of the concubine kneeled before him recall themselves in saturated detail. It’s as if he’s drunk on _soju_ again, the burn of it practically scorching down his throat as he sits there, mortified.

“....I hope not,” he admits, covering his face.

Hyungwon is twenty-two years of age. There are many things in the world he has yet to see, much more of his life he has yet to live. However, he’s not blind - the prime signs of young spring love are too obvious before him. Perhaps he’s more of a sentimental at heart than he ever thought himself to be.

“And?” he asks, one last time. His little cousin - in love. It fills him with some sort of gentle awe. “Have you seen him since then?”

“No.” The easy answer comes too quick. The real reason goes unspoken between them.

 _Trouble_ , Changkyun’s stare conveys, half of his face in uneven shadow. _Consequences for the both of you_ \- Hyungwon understands - _especially for him_.

It certainly is a dilemma, and somehow, it makes the older boy conflicted. He thinks, about the boundary of rules and regulations, of the court’s invisible eyes, and the public’s very visible own. Then, he considers - the quiet yearning that has troubled his cousin for so long, prolonged from day to night, and then repeated, over and over again - and he decides without doubt.

“So,” he starts, a new and secret promise made in just one hushed breath, “do you want to see him again?” He has no plan in mind - not yet, anyway.

But well, it’s always been a whim of his to visit the concubines’ forbidden palace.

Changkyun takes in a breath of his own, a simultaneous “ _yes_ ” whispered, reverent, in the next exhale.

In the dead of the night, their midnight oil burning even lower, two huddled shadows keep each other company through fervent and inscrutable murmurs.

 

-

 

“Impressive - wasn’t it?” Jooheon whispers, too excited despite his efforts to remain quiet. The tea house is empty, left to just the two of them on a rare night like this. He tries to turn under Minhyuk’s hands, wriggling to catch a glimpse of his friend’s expression.

“ _Shush_ -” He’s rewarded with a quick slap on the back of the neck. Jooheon stills, facing the dim shadow of the opposing wall again. The outline of Minhyuk’s figure rises and falls in erratic rhythm, as if in a wild dance with the fire’s light.

A gentle massage ensues, touch apologetic as fingers soothe over his skin, kneading down the knotted trail of his naked back. Bruises, old and new, blooming a deep purple with yellow biting at the edges, scatter like petals across his body. The branding of fingers peeks above the rumpled edge of his _jeogori_ , shed only to the waist.

And this is just his back. Minhyuk’s stomach clenches, disturbed, dreading what the view from the front would even look like. He reaches the last open expanse of bare skin, and closes his eyes, hesitating at what could only be worse from the waist-down.

Jooheon waits, blind to Minhyuk’s trouble, oblivious to even his own pain. The soreness of his body has long settled into a steady thrum, as easy as the pounding of his heart, the drag of each heavy breath against his chest.

He’s preoccupied with his own thoughts - watching the shadows paint themselves into pictures on the wall, familiar figures formed out of nothing but an absence of light.

Minhyuk, meanwhile, busies himself with a particularly nasty mark. It sits in the center of Jooheon’s neck, stark even under the dim cover of night, brighter than the glow of their single candle. The indentation of teeth around the edge bleed from a ring of plum to red. Specks of green and pale yellow discolor the untouched skin near it.

Much more than a kiss or even a hickey - it was a bite.  

Minhyuk’s fingers tremble for a moment, and he counts the shaking beats of his breath. There is a fresh set of woven linens at hand; he could wrap the fine cloth over the wound, hide the horror of it from the world, from Jooheon eyes. He could even forget the sight of it, wipe it from his own mind.

Instead, he reaches for a pot of cream, skimming a finger across the familiar valley of its surface. Held inside its tiny body, the ointment has already started to run low. Still, Minhyuk lavishes what he can on the bite, soothing over the swollen lump until it glistens, almost wet, under the light. He stares for just a moment more and finishes with a shaking press of lips to the fair skin next to it.

Jooheon, oblivious, smiles to himself as the cool sensation of a kiss touches his neck. He leans back, making to turn, and finally, Minhyuk lets him.

“You saw right?” he whisper-shouts, hands clenched together in excited restraint within his lap. “What an incredible shot!”

Minhyuk is drawn once again to the mark of interlocking fingerprints, looped like a tight ribbon above sloping collarbones. He looks up and meets Jooheon’s eye instead, relaxing at the sight of his friend’s easy enthusiasm.

“You’re a little _too_ impressed,” he hums, grinning back. He presses his thumb into the crease of a dimple just to feel it deepen reflexively under the pressure. Jooheon tries to pout, tries to hold it, but he smiles until his cheeks bunch under his eyes, until he’s only seeing out of two thin slits.

“Maybe I am.” He laughs and folds his own hand over Minhyuk’s, cradling it.

“It’s like you’re,” Minhyuk searches for the right words, the most accurate expression to depict Jooheon’s flushed face, the joy emanating like physical warmth from him. “ - like you’re in _love_ ,” he finishes in a whisper, almost incredulous from his own discovery.

“Do you think so?” the younger man whispers back, crawling closer, trapping the secret just between the two of them. The candlelight coils in their gazes, reflecting from one stare to the other, twin pools of amber flickering without sound.

When the older concubine doesn’t reply, mouth tight and eyes unreadable, Jooheon leans back and rests his cheek upon his knees, hugging his arms around them. “I don’t know either,” he admits, lips rustling over plain cotton.

Then, he looks up, chin propped against bent legs, eyebrows furrowed in determination. “But I - I want to see him again,” he confesses, and the raw hope in his voice catches, choking up his words - but his stare does not falter.

And to Minhyuk, despite every warning, every hesitation, every fear that had soaked him through on that rainy day - he can’t say no. In this subjugated life of theirs, bowed and beaten down night and day - he’d like to see Jooheon happy.

He rests his elbow against his own knees, cheek pressed to his palm, and fixes the younger concubine with a long look. Then, he raises a hand and flicks him, right on the crease between his brows. Jooheon topples back in pure surprise, face smooth once more.

“You’re so stubborn,” he mutters, watching all the while as Jooheon pushes himself back up on a bruised elbow.

The younger concubine finally sits up, his frown returning as he pats at the newly inflicted mark with a careful finger. “I really do though,” he mumbles, rubbing at the red indent and only irritating it further.

Minhyuk bats his hand away and replaces it with another light slap to the forehead. “I never said you couldn’t.” He takes Jooheon’s palm, spreading it open from wrist to fingertip, and fits the knobs and curves of the concubine’s hand between the spaces of his own.

The younger man’s breath hitches - he returns the grip, holding Minhyuk even tighter, pulling him ever closer to himself. “Promise?” This time he shakes, his yearning a fragile, flickering thing. Shadows waver between them.

“Promise.” Minhyuk replies, rushed, in the same breath. Their knuckles are white, locked in perfect unison together.

The candle, melting in a pool of its own wax, burns on strong for the rest of the night. Its small flame seals the secret away, a promised melded by words, hands, and hopes all linked in one -

all kept under the silence of the moon.

 

-

 

Hyungwon sets out when the first light drizzle of summer’s shower dapples the earth.

He leaves, no umbrella in hand, and turns his cheek to the skies as he walks. The clouds, woven in loose gray threads, part above for the meager light of a distant sun. The air is heavy, expectant, and awaiting a storm.

He raises an open palm, cradling fallen drops, and draws in a breath of wet dew. The rain dots his sleeve in minute points, each one lighter than the touch of silk. Despite the steady shower, the real summer storm is far, far away, boiling on the horizon between still land and sea.

Right now, Hyungwon thinks it’s a perfect day.

The palace walls curve and wind, hiding paved roads that lead through open door after door, only to close at strange dead ends - but the young lord takes his time. Two spring sparrows shy under the damp air, and they chase each other back to the nest, chattering in bursts of song. They streak past Hyungwon, still moving at a meandering pace, and he watches them go.

The pair of them tangle for a moment, a blur of sound and feathers, and then they disappear, leaping over another blank wall.

Hyungwon follows, possessed by a curious sense of fate.

The guards at the doorway stand to attention, but now they bow low at the waist, dropping their stares to face the ground. Hyungwon nods, struck by an odd sensation - and waits for the gates to open.

Nestled in the heart of the emperor’s city, is another well-kept secret. Now, Hyungwon, before its very doors, watches as the realm of the forbidden palace slides open and welcomes him inside.

Inside the structure of the imperial palace, is another system entirely. Tiers upon tiers of pointed roofs form layers of tall shadow from above, and along the steps, stand stone pedestals that reach for an eternity towards the sky. A twin pair of pavilions mirror each other, rising like silent gods from the depths of the open pond. Rain dapples across its surface, and the ripples spread until they bounce and break against the banks. A garden weaves through the center of it all, a perfect balance of asymmetry as water, stone, and flower intertwine into one.

And the purpose of it all? A gilded cage built for beautiful, kept songbirds.

Hyungwon shakes the awe from his face, slicking the rain from the brow. The drops hang along the tips of his fingers, paused in time, before falling onto the stone below. Underneath the murmur of the soft downpour, comes the distinct hush of voices nearby.

He heads towards the sound, ascends a creaking set of stairs, and slides open the first door.

A room of dark eyes turn - silent.

A teapot whistles from another room, and it sounds so distant under the _pitter- patter_ of rain, removed from the heavy quiet of the moment.  

Hyungwon is dizzy looking at all the figures before him. Long hair, some loosened, others half-done up, trail over a spread of silk garments, a kaleidoscope of colors all dyed blue by the storm’s light.

“Is-” he clears his throat, gripping the edge of the door, “is Jooheon here?”

A quick whisper zips around the room, silent glances traveling from one pale face to the other. Hyungwon has an odd feeling that they’re gossiping - but about who or what, he isn’t sure.

In the end, a chosen delegate rises and makes his way through the sprawl of tables and bodies, footsteps a light whisper over the mats. From what he managed to wheedle out of a flustered Changkyun, this doesn’t seem to be the one he’s looking for.

The concubine picks up a propped umbrella and pushes it open, spinning it with a flourish as he settles it in the crook of his shoulder. He meets Hyungwon’s eye from under its bamboo rim and motions for him to follow. They both step out into the awning, where the cool rain greets them once more in full force, its low hush grown into a sudden downpour.

The door snaps shut behind them.

 _Beoseon_ \- less, the other man slips his feet into loose black slippers. He adjusts the coil of his hair, let down in only a single braid, and strides forward without sparing Hyungwon another glance.

Caught without cover or company, the young lord hurries to follow.

They head into the garden on the whim of the concubine alone, and Hyungwon slows to keep himself two paces behind the other man. Under the dim rain, the outline of his bare legs shines, translucent, with the rustle of silk caught between each step. It can’t be warm, Hyungwon thinks, comparing the comfort of his own heavy robe to the slippery cover of the concubine’s own.

Though - amidst the pink blossoms, tinted gray by the sky - it is quite lovely.

In an overpass of arching branches, a multitude of peach flowers bloom above head. There, the concubine sweeps his umbrella to the ground and waits beneath them. Hyungwon quickens his step to reach the stop, the cover of his sleeve already worn damp against his forehead. He swipes the fabric over his skin, useless, as the rain only continues to soak him through.

“So,” he pauses, catching his breath and tasting a sweet perfume with the next inhale, “who are you?”

“Lee Minhyuk.” The concubine replies, matter-of-fact. “And _you_ are the crown prince’s cousin.” He looks Hyungwon in the eye, unflinching, and demands an answer. “What do you want with Jooheon?”

Hyungwon’s mouth opens and closes, the sound of his own surprise drowned out by the rain. “ _My cousin_ ,” he finally stresses, “wants to see him.”

He nods, meeting Minhyuk’s wide stare, and somehow, behind the veil of the storm, hidden within the garden’s many blossoms - they understand each other. _See each other again,_  passes between them, unspoken.

‘South of the river,’ Minhyuk starts, ‘the ladies gather to find lotus in the rain.’ He lets his eyes wander to a peach flower and focuses upon a bead of water swaying from its lip. From any passing view, he would simply be reciting poetry for the sake of it.

Hyungwon frowns, hesitating. It’s a strange turn of conversation. Confused, he supplies the next line anyway: ‘The lotus leaves are round.’

‘How round,” Minhyuk exclaims, soft, in time to the tune of the rain’s hushed murmur. He slips a finger under the petal and dislodges the drop. It sits, completely still, and then it rolls away, tracing a wet path from palm to wrist before melting into the earth.

Hyungwon recites the last line, drawing out the syllables of each and every word within his mouth, turning their meaning over and over inside his mind. Then - it dawns on him.

 

_south of the river -_

_the ladies gather to find lotus in the rain,_

_the lotus leaves are round,_

_how round!_

_and the fish awaken to play among the leaves._

 

_When one leaves for the rain, the other is sure to follow._

For the first time, the concubine smiles at him - an expression that crinkles at the edge of his eyes, pulls his thin lips long and wide.

Silent, he picks the umbrella up and pushes the wet handle into the other’s unsuspecting hands. Hyungwon fumbles at it, finally managing to raise the umbrella into an upright, awkward position next to his head. The tip of it has already caught in the thick net of branches above them and some dislodged drops scatter across their cheeks.

Minhyuk reaches up and brushes one away, the tip of his sleeve a smooth rasp over Hyungwon’s skin. A whisper passes through his ear, hidden, quiet, and then - gone with the next breath of wind.

With the message passed on, held safely within his mind, comes the time to depart.

He steps away, while Minhyuk remains still, watching him from under the shade of passing clouds. Hyungwon moves, one, two, three steps - the distance between them continuing to grow. He finally turns around, intending to walk forward, but then - he decides to look back one last time.

The branches hiding their little overpass tremble with minute movement, shaking clear dew from their arms. There is a dry spot under the trees that marks where Hyungwon had been - where Minhyuk no longer is.

A tell-tale rustle sounds from further in, the raindrops falling with an echo of clear, tinkling chimes.

Hyungwon raises the umbrella above his head and steps out into the rain once more.

 

Changkyun jerks up in surprise, his own hair still stuck to his forehead, as his cousin emerges, sopping wet from the outside.

Hyungwon takes one look at his disheveled state and throws the silk umbrella in his hand down at Changkyun’s side.

“Just - take this the next time you decide to go out and play in a storm,” he mumbles, a strange look on his face.

Changkyun nods slowly, mute, as his cousin fixes him with a stare. Satisfied, Hyungwon pads into his room, determined to find some dry clothes for the evening.

Finally, the prince turns to his new umbrella, still open against the floor, drops of rain rolling down the dome of its silk canopy. He takes the handle and spins it, watching, entranced, as painted red flowers whirl over an expanse of blue. Flecks of water dot his cheeks, pleasantly cool.

He closes the umbrella and props the handle up by his door. There is a summer storm traveling close over the horizon - perhaps, he’ll use it then.

 

-

 

Today, the sky boils over with gray clouds.

Changkyun looks up from his lesson and out the open window. A breeze stirs the surface of the pond, just barely, but the lone heron in it raises its head from a fishing dive. It tips open its long beak, and with a ruffle of feathers, strides out of the still water.

He breathes, inhaling a stream of cool air. It nestles inside his chest, a comfortable weight.  

Changkyun thinks of the strange umbrella waiting for him, always propped against his door, and somehow - he becomes excited for the coming storm.

 

Eventually, as the afternoon darkens and the prince tires of his studies, he looks to the sky again.

The window is still open, and Changkyun holds a hand out in shock. The habitual _drip-drip_ of a raindrop sounds from the awning, and one falls, softened by the cradle of his palm. Already, a steady downpour has begun outside.

The air is sharp, cool - the stirrings of a storm that is well on its way. Changkyun pushes away from his window, determined to catch the full brunt of the swirling tempest when it hits.

He slips on a cloak, tying it closed with a crooked knot, and jams his feet into a pair of worn boots he’s too entirely willing to ruin. Then, he pauses at his door and picks up the lone umbrella.

Every day, it catches his eye, as if waiting. Now, he pushes into the courtyard, the wind hissing past the gates, and finally puts it to use.

Above his head, the loud crash of rain dims to a firm patter, each drop cushioned upon its landing. Changkyun starts his stroll, allowing his feet to carry him forward on a journey without a destination.

It doesn’t matter  - amidst the haze of gray, it’s only him, a bright dot of blue bobbing through the storm.

Each step echoes with impact, and when he lifts his boot, it almost sticks to the water underfoot. In the absence of voices, the world sounds so clear around him.

An occasional trail of birdsong, the urgent burst of feathers through the brush, the grit of his shoes turning up fresh wet earth  - it’s like something is alive anew within him.

The hush of clamor grows, a slow but gradual escalation. The rain pelts into the ground, soaking it through until everything seems to well over. The downpour intensifies, beating down on him with every step he takes, making the inevitable journey back that much more difficult.

The umbrella tilts above his head, but Changkyun strides farther, faster, and further into the storm.

He steps onto the paved cobblestones of a garden path, each one slick and shiny. Lines of water run between the slits of each section, forming miniature rivers that eventually merge into one. Changkyun follows the trail, one foot in front of the other, towards an empty bridge.

Here the storm lightens, its heavy draught caught by the upturned faces of eager spring blossoms. The prince pauses, reluctant to stop his journey mid-way, but he decides to rest, if only for one moment.

Under the curve of the bridge, the pond gurgles as it teems with life. He leans over the edge, the grit of soaked stone leaving his palms damp, and looks into the waters.

Across the surface, lotus beds bob, dipping up-and-down with the sway of ripples. Their petals bend under the pressure of heavy drops, and as Changkyun watches, some of the flowers even tip over, spilling right into the pond.

Under the water itself, are the dappled koi fish. Caught in the storm, they swim as frenzied pods, their black eyes roving this way and that. Changkyun stares into their wide gaping mouths, mouths that open and close with the inflections of raindrops. The ripples fascinate them, a disturbance of their world below from a strange place above.

Changkyun reaches down and makes his own mark across the pond. The fish clamor towards him, hungry, gasping at the empty spot. He laughs and wonders what it would be like, to live like them, underneath the light in a pool of deep, deep shadow.

He’s lost in the swirl of his thoughts, the gentle sway of water around his finger, mesmerizing and calm - and then something touches his shoulder.

He falls back, flat and hard against the ground. Somehow, it hurts more in the rain with the grass slicked wet beneath him than on dry earth. The umbrella spins out of his grip and away in a wild series of rotations, rolling until it disappears down the bank - presumably lost to the depths of the pond.

Changkyun curses, instantly soaked - and then the words die in his mouth.

Jooheon leans above him, a hand still outstretched. His fingers are hidden beneath a long sleeve, as if unsure whether to reach out or shrink back. Changkyun meets the concubine’s eyes, timid, but they only glitter with amusement. His smile is pale pink under the dim shadow of his own silk umbrella.

Eventually, the concubine reaches forward, his palm open. Changkyun takes it and curls his fingers around Jooheon’s. They’re dry against his own, soft as they slide past the calluses of his knuckles. He simply holds the other man’s hand for a moment, still sat on the wet ground.

Jooheon only laughs, eyes crinkling, and pulls him up with an abrupt jerk. Changkyun automatically stumbles towards him.

The younger boy is already soaked through to his undergarments, but the concubine lifts the umbrella above both of their heads anyway. This time, they’re close, so much more than ever before - the rain, the air, and even the heat of Changkyun’s breath seems to stick in the space between them.

Now, pressed chest to chest, he realizes Jooheon is taller than him. Somehow, the sudden awareness of it makes his head spin.

Here, finally together, just the two of them - Changkyun allows himself to look.

Even under the cover of the umbrella, the impeccable lines around Jooheon’s eyes are smeared, dotted with flecks of dew. When he blinks, his lashes glisten, wet at the tips.  Raindrops hang like bells from each one.

“What-,” Changkyun speaks up. The sound of his voice is suddenly too jarring. The rain pounds out a perpetual beat, a low pulse jumping through his throat. “What are you still doing out here in this kind of storm?”

“I could ask you the same question, my prince.” Jooheon huddles closer, the umbrella tilted overhead. There’s an obvious smile in his voice, but Changkyun goes silent, embarrassed anyway.

The concubine watches a pink flush spread across the prince’s face, so bright through the gloom. Changkyun fidgets, pressing his lips together as if he can’t decide whether to speak or not. It’s endearing; it’s too adorable - Jooheon wants to ruffle his hair and kiss him on his bright pink cheek.

“I - it’s, you - it’s because it’s beautiful-,” he waves at the downpour outside the cover of their umbrella, “outside,” he finishes, jerking his eyes to the ground. How he messed up such a simple phrase - _it’s because you look so beautiful_ \- he doesn’t know. The only thing he considers now is how far he can run in the rain without drowning entirely.

Jooheon laughs, and it echoes, a light chime, under the dome of the umbrella. “You look very handsome as well,” and he can’t resist placing the words with a dry brush of lips over Changkyun’s cheek.

The young prince stands frozen to the spot, water pooling into his boots, around his ankles - and promptly forgets to breathe.

He stares at the ground, at his shoes, at the hems of their robes, at the dappled edge of Jooheon’s skirt, at the wrinkled wet silk and the translucent outline of skin, of bare legs underneath - Changkyun chokes, sputtering and wheezing on an empty cough.

It would be too mean to laugh, but Jooheon has to cover his mouth and swallow down his own feigned cough. “I think,” he hums, unable to muffle a small hiccup, “it would be best if Your Highness went back inside and out of this storm.”

Changkyun, unknowingly, adopts a pout. A raindrop from his hair comes loose and travels down the curve of his cheekbone, painting his features with a sharp hand. Jooheon whispers in a feigned hush, “You look very handsome when you’re dry too.”

This time the prince doesn’t choke or splutter, but his gaze flickers, looking at anything but Jooheon’s face. It feels too soon to leave, too long, an eternity even, until he can see him, talk to him again. Finally, he settles for somewhere just past the edge of the concubine’s head. “Then...would you,” he blurts out the rest, “- do you want to spend the night?”

Jooheon’s eyes shoot open, widened beyond their usual delicate line. He begins to reply, and Changkyun rushes to clarify - the both of them babbling simultaneously.

“My prince-”

“I meant - you’re wet, I mean - drenched too, and you could freshen up - there’s so much space in my quarters -”

“it would be-”

“you could sleep anywhere and there’s a private bath too-”

Jooheon stops him with a gentle press of fingers. Changkyun falls silent immediately. The touch against his lips is a soft, welcome shock. He looks up at the concubine, his hair plastered over his brows, eyes wide and glistening - Jooheon’s heart seems to sigh, and an aching warmth unfurls inside his chest.

He drops his hand, only to find Changkyun’s frozen one and lace his fingers through the prince’s numbed own. “It would be an honor, my prince.” Jooheon leans down and pecks his cheek again.

Changkyun turns on his heel, and a rush of emotion overtakes him. Among the nervous jitters, the pure pounding of his heart - there’s breathtaking excitement as well. He leads the way back to his quarters, his gaze locked on the path before him, Jooheon at his side, and their hands swinging, steadfast between them.

 

-

 

It is the first time since the night of his birthday, since the night of their meeting, that Changkyun pours himself another cup of _soju_.

Hidden behind the walls of another room, he can only imagine Jooheon must be drying himself - and changing. Outside his quarters, the rain has dimmed to a whisper, and everything else inside - well, it’s all too loud.

Every soft brush, each muffled tap, is an opportunity for his mind to spiral out of control. So, Changkyun drinks.

One cup - then two, three, perhaps five, and then six - until the room seems to smear before him. It’s a wonderful haze to see through. When he blinks, orange fire sparks from shadowed corners. He swirls the small bottle, loose between the tips of his fingers, and listens to the drink inside sing its clinking praises.

Somehow, even after the rain has soaked him through to the bone, he’s still thirsty for more. A sensation of warmth seeps in, numb through the cold, creeping over him in the most harmless of ways. It’s pleasant, and it makes him feel drowsy, dazed even.  

And so, like a warm fever after a long downpour, love-sickness can be caught in the same way.

When Jooheon emerges, fluffed and dried, he finds his place at the prince’s side. Before them is the elegant body of the silk-string _guzheng_ , the first instrument shared between them so many nights ago.

The concubine plucks a low humming note, a quick flick of his finger across the strings. Changkyun sways and then turns to him as if somehow surprised. Jooheon readies both hands above the instrument, and without hesitation, the younger boy scoots closer.

The concubine smiles, quiet and soft. The prince, when drunk, becomes slow and sleepy, and he finds it only, if at all, slightly exasperating. Mostly, he’s just charmed.

An impromptu song begins to take form between them as notes ring out, following the trail of quick fingers and curled wrists. It’s a simple, wordless, tune, and provides a soothing accompaniment to the percussion of rain outside. It’s enough to keep Changkyun tapping along to the rhythm. He falls behind by a beat or two, but Jooheon changes the pace, always matching him note for note.

In the blur of the candlelight, the concubine is softer than ever. Perhaps the rain has already worn through his painted mask - the bow of his mouth is gentle and faded without the stain of red around the edge, his cheeks puffy under the smeared blush.

His robes are tied, hasty and loose, at the waist, the outer layer already shed. The curve of his collarbones is bare, and shadows slip, quick as ink, down the swell of his chest.

Changkyun, irrationally, wants to cover it all up, hide it from his own eyes.

Unaware of their proximity, he stumbles forward, sliding on his knees with only one thing on his mind, a single focus before him. His hands reach towards an open collar, his gaze wavering on a warm stretch of skin-

Jooheon turns, jerking backward, and Changkyun halts in his own sudden flinch. Lips parted - a kiss practically brushes between them. They’re so close, almost, _almost_ , even the sigh of a distant breeze could tip one against the other.

But Changkyun falters, falling, too drunk on the heady rush of Jooheon _almost_ against his lips. It’s a confusing sensation, a strange reaction of pure instinct, panic, and want - for a moment, he considers it again, to actually taste the kiss upon his tongue - but the heavy lump of emotions settles inside him, pinning him to the spot.

Beneath the burn of _soju_ , he swallows down the bitter cup of cowardice.

Still, Jooheon turns to him, his mouth curled into a wavering smile. His dimples seem to cradle the moon’s eternal light, hold the deepest, darkest of the ocean’s secrets. The song starts again, and Changkyun allows his erratic panic to be soothed. Soon enough, they’re pressed close again, cheek to cheek, not quite eye to eye.

Again, the night passes, easy and comfortable between them. With music in the air, a warm presence next to him, Changkyun begins to doze. Jooheon plays on, softening each chord with the prince’s hushed breaths.

Eventually, the strings fall silent and the candle is blown out with a quiet huff. Changkyun curls into his bed, wrapped around his blankets, frowning in his sleep as a gentle touch brushes his hair from his forehead, admires the curve his cheek - and then departs with one final caress.

Somewhere, in his dreams, he lies awake, unsatisfied.

Jooheon, under the lonely watch of the moon and a veil of stars, is gripped by an incomplete emotion, a deep, uncomfortable regret.

Something was lost to that moment, that _almost_ between them. To meet again, to regain the hush of breath, close the distance from one mouth to another - time stretches long, the space of an eternity before them.

And so he closes his eyes to the night, presses one hand to his heart, the other over his mouth and dares to hope - for just once more.

 

-

 

Changkyun jerks upright, fighting off a tangle of shadowed figures within the hidden confines of his blankets. He turns to the window and searches for a hint of the sun’s rays. The light of the morning is misted over blue, the air rolling past in puffs of gray, and the barest hint of pink streaks across the sky.

He’s awake before dawn has even risen.

Changkyun slept for most of the night, he knows he did, tastes the staleness of drink on his tongue, recalls the barest impression of fingers over his forehead. He slept deeply - but he did not sleep well. His dreams were hazy at the edges, blurred over in a dark and indiscriminate fog that he could never peer through. The images in them are long gone, but the sensation of reaching for something far, far away remains unforgettable.

Even now, roused from them, he’s possessed by an indescribable impulse - that if only he could slip past that shadow, he wouldn’t be left here, incomplete, hollowed from the inside out.

He folds his hand over his heart, wrapping his fingers into a fist and pressing it down against his chest with the next slow breath. A pull from within tugs at him, jerking, compulsive, and completely intangible. Changkyun wants to cough it up and hold it in his palms. Maybe, like a young hatchling, it could fly free and guide him to some other world, show him what he seeks.

A bird-call echoes his thoughts, a single trill through the stillness. He looks up, and there, by the door, is the propped handle of a pink silk umbrella.

Changkyun slides off the bed and pads across the floor, pulse roaring within his ears. The beat of his heart thuds louder, harder with every step. He picks up the umbrella, his fingers fitting around each knob and curve, and in the next instant - he bursts out into the cool morning air.

His sleep-rumpled robes tangle between his rushed, uneven stride, but Changkyun reaches forward, faster, and ever more impatient. The forgotten umbrella bounces overhead, awaiting its urgent return.

In his hasty search, Changkyun tears through multiple gardens, crosses various bridges, and steps through many empty doorways. On the eve of the sunrise, there are no guards left awake to stop him.

Perhaps - it is a play of fate that dawn first stirs as he turns onto the neglected path of a forgotten garden. The gates ahead are spread wide open, the lines of age weaving across the stone in deep, cobwebbed faults. Nobody has bothered to bolt it shut in a very long time.

Now Changkyun passes through, unhindered and alone.

Inside, the garden flourishes, bursting wild through the cracks. The abandoned sculptures have been weathered into the shape of indecipherable beings, and the prince looks upon them with open-mouthed awe. When he walks by, they seem to return his stare, a strange work of magic and wonder. The entire place thrives, alive, unrestrained, and free.

He travels deeper, taking twists, turns, and steps, until even the broken stone of the path is gone, cut off before him. A burst of peonies marks his stop, spilling over in tall bunches from the branches of a bowed tree. Under it, a pond reflects the sky with perfect clarity.

And on the knoll of a grassy bank, sits another solitary figure.

The dawn after summer’s first storm falls upon the scene, draped like a dewed, sunlit veil. Jooheon turns, and he shimmers, a beautiful ghost caught in the light. “Was it the morning air for you too?” He smiles and gestures to the empty place at his side, as if expecting him.

“It was the dream of it,” Changkyun replies, dazed. When he reaches the sloping bank, he bends down, and Jooheon tilts up, eyes growing wide - the umbrella fans above them, blocking out the sun and sky.

Hidden from the world, their lips meet.

The first kiss tastes like fresh spring. Like swallowing a drop of warm summer’s rain, it travels down, deep, coiling, leaving only the want for more.

The second kiss tastes of desperate urgency, the third like aching tenderness, and the fourth - just the softness of another mouth against Changkyun’s own. By the fifth, he’s clearly forgotten how to breathe.

Finally, the prince sits, taking an automatic spot next to Jooheon. His lips tingle, sweet and numb, the sound of his own thoughts traveling past in a distant echo - but at the moment, he’s content. Birdsong rings out from above them, and Jooheon intersperses each chirp with a small hum of his own. Changkyun leans against his shoulder, an accompanying rhythm pounding inside his chest as he taps out a simple beat against the banks.

Like this, their fingers eventually find each other and intertwine - together once more, they watch the world rise in companionable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title and poem in summary is a chinese song - the exchange between hyungwon and minhyuk uses the same lyrics with some slight adjustments made by yours truly.  
> Thank you for reading! Any and all comments are always appreciated!  
> hmu:  
> twitter: [*](https://twitter.com/happycakeycake)  
> tumblr: [^](https://happycakestories.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
